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6000726220 




^f I 



AUKORA FLOYD. 



f 



xoamoH : pbhttbd bt william olowxs and sons, siaufokd sibeet, 

ASD OHAIUHO. CBU6S. 



AUROBA FLOYD. 



BT 

M. E. BEADDON, 

▲ ITTHOB OF **LADX AUDLBT'S 8X0BBT. 



IN THBEB VOLUMES. 

VOL. m. 



FIFTH EDITION. 



LONDON: 

TINSLET BEOTHEES, 18 CATHEEINE STBEET,' 

STEAND. 

1863. 






CONTENTS. 



^ 



CHAPTER I. 

PAOS 

AT THE GOLDEN UON . ' • • • • 1 



CHAPTER IL 

MT WIPE 1 MY WIPE ! WHAT WIPE ? I HAVE NO WIPE 18 

CH^JPTER ni. 
axtboba's plight 31 

CHAPTER rV. 
JOHN hellish PINDS HIS HOME DESOLATE • • 49 

CHAPTER V. 

AN UNEXPECTED YISITOB 73 

CHAPTER VI. 
TALBOT BULSTBODE's ADVICE .... 103 

CHAPTER VII. 

ON THE WATCH 118 

CHAPTER VIH. 
CAPTAIN PBODDEB GOES BACK TO DONCASTEB • 143 



VI CONTENTS. 

CHAPTEB IX. 

''PAGB 

THB DISOOYEBY OF THE WEAPON WITH WHICH JAMES 

CONYEBS HAD BEEN SLAIN .... 174 

CHAPTEB X. 
TJNDEB A CLOUD ...•«. 190 

CHAPTER XI. 

BEUNION 223 

CHAPTiai XiL 
THB BBASS BUTTON BY CBOSBY, BIBMINGHAM . . 24:0 

CHAPTER Xm. 
OFF THE SCENT 258 

CHAPTER XIV. 

TALBOT BULSTBODE MAKES ATONEMENT FOB THE 

PAST . . • 283 



AUROKA FLOYD. 



CHAPTEE L 

AT THE GOLDEN LION. 



Mr. Willtam Dork, the constable, reached 
Doncaster at about a quartei>past one o'clock 
upon the morning after the murder, and drove 
straight to the Reindeer. That hotel had been 
closed for a couple of hours, and it was only by 
the exercise of his authority that Mr. Dork 
obtained access, and a hearing from the sleepy 
landlord. The young man who had driven Mr. 
Prodder was found after considerable difficulty, 
and came stumbling down the servants' staircase 
in a semi-sonmolent state to answer the constable's 
inquiries. He had driven the seafaring gentleman, 
whose name he did not know, direct to the 
D6ncaster station, in time to catch the mail- 
A train, which started at 12.50. He had parted 

"V 



2 AURORA FLOYD. 

with the gentleman at the door of the station 
three minutes before the train started. 

This was all the information that Mr. Dork 
could obtain. K he had been a sharp London 
detective, he might have made his arrangements 
for laying hands upon the fugitive sailor at the 
first station at which the train stopped ; but being 
merely a simple rural functionary, he scratched 
his stubbled head, and stared at the landlord of 
the Keindeer in utter mental bewilderment. 

" He was in a devil of a hurry, this chap," he 
muttered rather sulkily. " What did he want to 
coot away for ?" 

The young man who had acted as charioteer 
could not answer this question. He only knew 
that the seafaring gentleman had promised him 
half a sovereign if he caught the mail-train, and 
that he had earned his reward. 

"Well, I suppose it aint so very particklar," 
said Mr. Dork, sipping a glass of rum, which he 
had ordered for his refreshment "Tou'U have 
to appear to-morrow, and you can tell nigh as 
much as t'other chap," he added, turning to 
the young man. " You was with hini when the 
shot were fired, and you wam't far when he found 
the body. You'll have to appear and give evi- 



AT THE GOLDEN LION. 3 

dence whenever the inquest's held. I doubt if 
it'll be to-morrow ; for there won't be much time 
to give notice to the coroner." 

Mr. Dork wrote the young man's name in his 
pocket-book, and the landlord vouched for his 
being forthcoming when called upon. Having done 
thus much, the constable left the inn, after drink- 
ing another glass of rum, and refreshing John 
Mellish's horse with a handful of oats and a drink 
of water. He drove at a brisk pace back to 
the Park stables, delivered the horse and gig to 
the lad who had waited for his coming, and re- 
turned to his comfortable dwelling in the village 
of Meslingham, about a mile from the Park gates. 

I scarcely know how to describe that long, 
quiet, miserable day which succeeded the night of 
the murder. Aurora Mellish lay in a dull stupor, 
not able to lift her head from the pillows upon 
which it rested, scarcely caring to raise her eye- 
lids from the aching eyes they sheltered. She was 
not ill, nor did she affect to be ill. She lay upon 
the sofa in her dressing-room, attended by her 
maid, and visited at intervals by John, who 
roamed hither and thither about the house and 
grounds, talking to innumerable people, and 

VOL. III. c 



4 AUEORA FLOYD. 

always coming to the same conclusion, namely, 
that the whole affair was a horrible^ mystery, and 
that he heartily wished the inquest well over. 
He had visitors from twenty miles round his house, 
— for the evil news had spread far and wide before 
noon, — ^visitors who came to condole and to 
sympathize, and wonder, and speculate, and ask 
questions, until they fairly drove him mad. But 
he bore all very patiently. He could tell them 
nothing except that the business was as dark a 
mystery to him as it could be to them, and that 
he had no hope of finding any solution to the 
ghastly enigma. They one and all asked him the 
same question : " Had any one a motive for killing 
this man?" 

How could he answer them ? He might have 
told them that if twenty persons had had a power- 
ful motive for killing James Conyers, it was pos- 
sible that a one-and-twentieth person who had no 
motive might have done the deed. That species 
of argument which builds up any hypothesis out of 
a series of probabilities may, after aU, lead very 
often to false conclusions. 

Mr. Mellish did not attempt to argue the 
question. He was too weary and sick at heart. 



AT THE GOLDEN LION. 5 

too anxious for the inquest to be over, and be free 
to cany Aurora away with him, and turn his back 
upon the familiar pleice, which had been hateful to 
him ever siace the trainer had crossed its threshold. 

" Yes, my darling," he said to his wife, as he 
bent over her pillow, " I shall take you away to 
the south of France directly this business is 
settled. You shall leave the scene of all past 
associations, all bygone annoyances. We will be- 
gin the world afresh." 

"God grajit that we may be able to do so," 
Aurora answered gravely. "Ah, my dear, I 
cannot tell you that 1 am sorry for this man's death. 
If he had died nearly two years ago, when I thought 
he did, how much misery he would have saved me !" 

Once in the course of that long summer's after- 
noon Mr. Mellish walked across the park to the 
cottage at the north gates. He could not repress 
a morbid desire to look upon the lifeless clay of 
the man whose presence had caused him such 
vague disquietude, such instinctive terror. He 
found the " Softy " leaning on the gate of the little 
garden, and one of the grooms standing at the door 
of the death-chamber. 

" The inquest is to be held at the Golden Lion, 

c 2 



6 AURORA FLOYD. 

at ten o'clock to-morrow morning," Mr. Mellish 
said to the men. " You, Hargraves, will be wanted 
as a witness." 

He walked into the darkened chamber. The 
groom understood what he came for, and silently 
withdrew the white di-apery that covered the 
trainer's dead face. 

Accustomed hands had done their awful duty. 
ThQ strong limbs had been straightened. The 
lower jaw, which had dropped in the agony of 
sudden death, was supported by a linen bandage ; 
the eyelids were closed over the dark- violet eyes ; 
and the face, which had been beautiful in life, 
was even vet more beautiful in the still solem- 
nity of death. The clay which in life had lacked 
so much, in its lack of a beautiful soul to light it 
from within, found its level in death. The 
worthless soul was gone, and the physical per- 
fection that remained had lost its only blemish. 
The harmony of proportion, the exquisitely- 
modelled features, the charms of detail, — all were 
left ; and tlie face which James Conyers carried 
to the grave was handsomer than that which had 
smiled insolent defiance upon the world in the 
trainer's lifetime. 



AT THE GOLDEN LION. ' 7 

John Mellish stood for some minutes looking 
gravely at that marble face. 

"Poor fellow!" thought the generous-hearted 
young squire; "it was a hard thing to die so 
young. I wish he had never come here. I wish 
Lolly had confided in me, and let me made a 
bargain with this man to stop away and keep her 
secret. Her secret! her father's secret more 
likely. What secret could she have had, that a 
groom was likely to discover? It may have been 
some mercantile business, some commercial trans- 
action of Archibald Floyd's, by which the old man 
fell into his servant's power. It would be only 
like my glorious Aurora, to take the burden upon 
her own shoulders, and to bear it bravely through 
every trial." 

It was thus that John Mellish had often 
reasoned upon the mystery which divided him 
from his wife. He could not bear to impute even 
the shadow of evil to her. He could not endure 
to think of her as a poor helpless woman en- 
trapped into the power of a mean-spirited hireling, 
who was only too willing to make his market out 
of her secrets. He could not tolerate such an 
idea as this; and he sacrificed poor Archibald 



8 ' AUKORA FLOYD. 

Floyd's commercial integrity for the preservation 
of Aurora's womanly dignity. Ah, how veak and 
imperfect a passion is this boundless love ! How 
ready to sacrifice others for that one loved object, 
which must be kept spotless in our imaginations, 
though a hecatomb of her fellow-creatures are to 
be blackened and befouled for her justification ! 
If Othello could have established Desdemona's 
purity by the sacrifice of the reputation of every 
lady in Cyprus, do you think he would have 
spared the feir inhabitants of the friendly isle ? 
No ; he would have branded every one of them 
with infamy, if he could by so doing have re- 
habilitated the wife he loved. John Mellish 
would not think ill of his wife. He resolutely 
shut his eyes to all danmiug evidence. He clung 
with a desperate tenacity to his belief in her 
purity, and only clung the more tenaciously as 
the proofs against her became more numerous. 

The inquest was held at a road-side inn, within 
a quarter of a mile of the north gates — ^a quiet 
little place, only frequented on market-days 
by the country people going backwards and 
forwards between Doncaster and the villages 
beyond Meslinghanu The coroner and his jury 



AT THE GOLDEN LION. 9 

sat in a long bare room, in which the frequenters 
of the GU)lden Lion were wont to play bowls in 
wet weather. The surgeon, Steeve Hargraves, 
Jaryis, the young man from the Beindeer, William 
Dork the constable, and Mr. Mellish, were the 
only witnesses called : but Colonel Maddison and 
Mr. Lofthouge were both present during the brief 
proceedings. 

The inquiry into the circumstances of ihe 
trainer's death occupied a very short time. No- 
thing was elicited by the brief examination of the 
witnesses which in any way led to the elucidation 
of the mystery. John Mellish was the last person 
interrogated, and he answered the questions put 
to him with prompt decision. There was one 
inquiry, however, wjuch he was unable <to answer, 
although it was a very simple one. Mr. Hayward, 
the co]^)ner, anxious to discover so much of the 
history of the dead man as might lead eventually 
to the discovery of his murderer, asked Mr. 
Mellish if his trainer had been a bachelor or a 
married mm. 

"I really cannot answer that question," said 
John ; ^ I should imagine that he was a single 
man, as neither he nor Mr. Pastern told me any* 



10 AURORA FLOYD. 

thing to the contrary. Had he been married, he 
would have brought his wife with him, I should 
suppose. My trainer, Langley, was married when 
he entered my service, and his wife and children 
have occupied the premises over my stables for 
some years." 

" Tou infer, then, that James Conyers was un- 
married ?" 

" Most decidedly." 

" And it is your opinion that he had made no 
enemies in the neighbourhood ?" 

"It is next to impossible that he could have done 



BO. 



"To what cause, then, do you attribute his 
death ?" 

" To an unhappy accident. I can account for 
it in no other way. The path through the wood 
is used as a public thoroughfare, and the whole of 
the plantation is known to be infested with 
poachers. It was past ten o'clock at night when 
the shot was heard. I should imagine that it was 
fired by a poacher whose eyes deceived him in the 
shadowy light." 

The coroner shook his head. " You forget, Mr. 
Mellish," he said, " that the cause of death was not 



AT THE GOLDEN LION. 11 

an ordinary gun-shot wound. The shot heard was 
the report of a pistol, and the deceased was killed 
by a pistol-bullet." 

John Mellish was silent. He had spoken in 
good faith as to his impression respecting the 
cause of the trainer's death. In the press and 
hurry, the horror and confiision of the two last 
days, the smaller details of the awful event had 
escaped his memory, 

'* Do you know any one amongst your servants, 
Mr. Mellish,** asked the coroner, "whom you 
would consider likely to commit an act of 
violence of this kind ? Have you any one of an 
especially vindictive character in your house- 
hold r 

"No," answered John, decisively; "I can 
answer for my servants as I would for myself. 
They were all strangers to this man. What 
motive could they possibly have had to seek his 
death?" 

Mr. Hayward rubbed his chin, and shook his 
head reflectively. 

" There was this superannuated trainer whom 
you spoke of just now, Mr. Mellish," he said. "I 
am well aware that the post of trainer in your 



12 AURORA FLOYD. 

m 

stables is rather a good thing. A man may save 
a good deal of money out of his wages and per- 
quisites with such a master as you. This former 
trainer may not have liked being superseded by 
the deceased, flfe may have felt some animus to- 
wards hi3 successor." 

" Langley 1" cried John Mellish ; " he is as good 
a fellow as ever breathed. He was not superseded ; 
he resigned the active part of his work at his own 
wish, and he retained his full w^ges by mine. The 
poor fellow has been confuied to his bed for the 
last week." 

" Humph," muttered the coroner. ** Then you 
can throw no light upon this business, Mr. 
Mellish r 

"None whatever. I have written to Mr. 
Pastern, in ^hose ^bles the deceased was em- 
ployed, telling him of the circumstances of the 
trainer's death, and begging him to forward the 
information to any relative of the mm-dered man. 
I expect an answer by to-morrow's post ; and I 
shall be happy to submit that answer to you." 

Prior to the examination of the witnesses, the 
jurymen had been conducted to the north lodge, 
where they had beheld the mortal remains of 



AT THE GOLDEN LION. 13 

James Conyers. Mr. Morton had accompanied 
them, and had endeaYoured to explain to them 
the direction which the bullet had taken, and the 
manner in which, according to his own idea, the 
shot must have been fired. The jurymen who 
had been empannelled to decide upon this awful 
question were simple agriculturists and petty 
tradesmen, who grudged the day's lost labour, and 
who were ready to accept any solution of the 
mystery which might be suggested to them by the 
coroner. They hurried back to the Golden lion, 
listened deferentially to the evidence and to 
Mr. Hayward's address, retired to an adjoining 
apartment, where they remained in consulta/tion 
for the space of about five minutes, and whence 
they emerged with a very rambling form of 
decision, w:hich Mr. Hayward reduced into a 
verdict of wilfujl murder against some person or 
persons unknown. 

Very little had been said about the disappear- 
ance of the seafaring man who had carried the 
tidings of the murder to Mr. Mellish's house. 
Nobody for a moment imagined that the evidence 
of this missing witness might have thrown some 
ray of light upon the mystery of the trainer's 



14 AURORA FLOYD. 

death. The seafaring mau had been engaged in 
conversation with the young man from the Rein- 
deer at the time when the shot was fired; he 
was therefore not the actual murderer; and 
strangely significant as his hurried flight might 
have been to the acute intelligence of a well- 
trained metropolitan police-oflBcer, no one amongst 
the rustic officials present at the inquest attached 
any importance to the circumstance. Nor had 
Aurora's name been once mentioned during the 
brief proceedings. Nothing had transpired which 
in any way revealed her previous acquaintance 
with James Conyers ; and John Mellish drew a 
deep breath, a long sigh of reKef, as he left the 
Golden Lion and walked homewards. Colonel 
Maddison, Mr. Lofthouse, and two or three other 
gentlemen lingered on the threshold of the little 
inn, talking to Mr. Hayward, the coroner. 

The inquest was terminated ; the business was 
settled ; and the mortal remains of James Conyers 
could be carried to the grave at the pleasure of 
his late employer. All was over. The mystery 
of death and the secrets of life would be buried 
peacefully in the grave of the murdered man; 
and John Mellish was free to carry his wife away 



AT THE GOLDEN LION. 15 

with him whithersoever he would. Free, have 
I said ? No ; for ever and for ever the shadow of 
that bygone mystery would hang like a funeral 
pall between himself and the woman he loved. 
For ever and for ever the recollection of that 
ghastly undiscovered problem would haunt him in 
sleeping and in waking, in the sunlight and in the 
darkness. His nobler nature, triumphing again 
and again over the subtle influences of damning 
suggestions and doubtful facts, was again and 
again shaken, although never quite defeated. He 
fought the battle bravely, though it was a very 
hard one, and it was to endure perhaps to the 
end of time. That voiceless argument was for 
ever to be argued ; the spirits of Faith and In- 
fidelity were for ever to be warring with each 
other in that tortured breast, until the end of 
life; until he died, perhaps, with his head lying 
upon his wife's bosom, with his cheek fanned by 
her warm breath ; but ignorant to the very last 
of the real nature of that dark something, that 
nameless and formless horror with which he had 
wrestled so patiently and so long. 

"I'll take her away with me," he thought; 
" and when we are divided bv a thousand miles of 



16 AURORA FLOYD, 

blue water from the scene of her secret, I will fall 
on my knees before her, and beseech her to con- 
fide in me." 

He passed by the north lodge with a shudder, 
and walked straight along the high road towards 
the principal entrance of the Park. He was close 
to the gates when he heard a voice, a strange 
suppressed voice, calling feebly to him to stop. 
He turned round and saw the "Softy" making 
his way towards him with a slow, shambling run 
Of all human beings, except perhaps that one 
who now lay cold and motionless in the darkened 
chamber at the north lodge, this Steeve Hargraves 
was the last whom Mr. Mellish cared to see. He 
turned with an angry frown upon the " Softy," who 
was wiping the perspiration from his pale face with 
the ragged end of his neck-handkerchief, and 
panting hoarsely. 

« What is the matter ?" asked John. « What 
do you want with me?" 

"It's th' coroner," gasped Stephen Hargraves, 
— "th' coroner and Mr. Lofthouse, th' parson. 
They want to speak to ye, sir, oop at the Loion." 

"What about?" 

Steeve Hargraves gave a ghastly grin. 



AT THE GOLDEN LION, 17 

"I doan't know, sir," he whispered. "It's 
hardly loikely they'd tell me. There's summat 
oop, though, I'll lay; for Mr. Lofthouse was 
as whoite as ashes, and seemed strangely oopset 
about summat. Would you be pleased to step oop 
and speak to 'un directly, sir? — that was my 
message." 

" Tes, yes ; I'll go," answered John absently. 

He had taken his hat off, and was passing his 
hand over his hot forehead in a half-bewildered 
manner. He turned his back upon the " Softy," 
and walked rapidly away, retracing his steps in 
the direction of the roadside inn. 

Stephen Hargraves stood staring after him 
until he was out of sight, and then turned and 
walked on slowly towards the turnstile leading 
into the wood. 

"2 know what they've found," he muttered; 
"and I know what they want with him. He'll 
be some time oop there; so I'll slip across the 
wood and tell her. Tes," — ^he paused, rubbing 
his hands, and laughing a slow voiceless laugh, 
which distorted his ugly face, and made him 
horrible to look upon, — ^' yes, it wiU be nuts for 
me to tell her." 



18 AURORA FLOYD. 



CHAPTER IL 

" MY WIFE ! MY WIFE ! WHAT WIFE ? I HAVE 



NO WIFE." 



The Grolden Lion had reassnmed its accustomed 
air of rustic tranquillity when John Hellish re- 
turned to it. The jurymen had gone back to 
their different avocations, glad to have finished the 
business so easily; the villagerSy who had hung 
about the inn to hear what they could of the 
proceedings, were all dispersed; and the land- 
lord was eating his dinner, with his wife and 
family, in the comfortable little bar-parlour. He 
put down his knife and fork as John entered the 
sanded bar, and left his meal to receive such a 
distinguished visitor. 

^ Mr. Hayward and Mr. Lofthouse are in the 
coffee-room, ar,^ he said. " Will you please to 
step this way 7* 

He opaied the door of a carpeted room, fur- 



*'BfY wife! my wifeI what wife?** 19 

nished with shining mahogany tables, and adorned 
by half a dozen gaudily-coloured prints of the 
Doneaster meetings, the great match between 
Voltigeur and Flying Dutchman, and other events 
which had won celebrity for the northern race- 
course. The coroner was sitting at the bottom of 
one of the long tables, with Mr. Loftliouse stand- 
iQg near him. William Dork, the Meslingham 
constable, stood near the door, with his hat in his 
hand, and with rather an alarmed expression 
dimly visible in his ruddy face. Mr. Hayward 
and Mr. Lofthouse were both very pale. 

One rapid glance was enough to show all this 
to John Mellish, — enough to show him this, and 
something more: a basin of blood-stained water 
before the coroner, and an oblong piece of wet 
paper, which lay under Mr. Hayward's clenched 
hand. 

"What is the matter? Why did you send for 
me T John asked. 

Bewildered and alarmed as he had been by the 
message which had summoned him hurriedly 
back to the inn, he was still more so by the 
confasion evident in the coroner's manner as h e 
answered this question. 

VOL. ni. D 



20 AmSOBJL H0YBL 

^Pmf A ismm, :Sk. MtiSA:' }» said. ^ 
I — salt 6x jmi — at — tiie — Hattadwiee of Xn Loft- 
lune, wim — ndbo^ as a desgjmmL and a &nu3^ 
tiKoaEBiii it mdOBtoQzt mpoiL mo 



^^T;^— ^ IiflffiuiaB& kid ids kand upon tiie 
ciamci^s am. with, a iwiriiiiiyg geetore. Mr. Baj^ 
ward eknnwd fer a nfinneiit^ (beared his throaty 
Ae& f*wifcnuifi d gpeakii^^ but m an altered 



'^I hmB had. «eeaflioii ta teprebefnd WiJSiamL 
Dttk Sae a tseadi of datjr^ wUdhi^ tiboo^ I ana 
aware it mi^ haive heea^ aa ke sa^ pizrely 



'Vtiiw r 



^It ipas ivieed, sr,'' oaattered tk& ccnetabfe 
aafansBifc^. ^ if Fd ha' kaow'd "^ 

"^TkEi htdiis^Mr^ MdDidk^ that w the bi^ of 
Ae maniae^Dcni^ m »^ajiiwMig the (jothes of tha 
deceased, diacoTezed a paper^ which had beea 
eoHceakdbf &e uoiiappy naa between de out^r 
Tnatf^rial and Ihe Ening of hk waistcoat. Tlua 
paper waa so rtaiaed hf tiie bkiod in whi^ &e 
bneart of tiie waisteoat waa dbsolulely satnraled^ 
tibat Doik waa nnaUe tE> decq^irar a word of ila 
coBtea t ^, Ha therefore waa quite unaware oi tik& 
importance of the paper; and, ia the huny aiod 



"MY WIFE I MY wife! WHAT WIFE?" 21 

confusion consequent on the very liard duty ho 
has done for the last two days, he forgot to pro- 
duce it at the inquest. He had occasion to maka 
some memorandum in his pocket-book ahnost 
immediately alter the verdict had been givezi, and 
this circumstance recalled to his mind the exist>« 
ence of the paper. He came^ immediately to me^ 
and consulted me upon this very awkward busi- 
ness. I examined the document^ washed away a 
considerable portion of the stains which had 
rendered it illegible, and have contrived to de- 
cipher the greater part of it." 

^^ The document is of some importance, then ?" 
John asked. 

He sat at a little distance from the table, with 
his head bent and his fingers Trattling nervously 
against the side of his chair. He chafed horribly 
at the coroner's pompous slowness. He suffered 
an agony of fear and bewilderment. Why had 
they called him back? What was this paper? 
How could it concern him ? 

" Yes," Mr. Hayward answered ; " the document 
is certainly an important one. I have shown it to 
Mr. Loffchouse, for the purpose of taking his 
advice upon the subject. I have not shown it to 

D 2 



22 AUBORA FLOTD. 

Dork ; but I detained Dork in order that yon may- 
hear £rom him how and where the paper was 
fixmd, and why it was not prodnced at the in- 
qnesf 

^Why should I ask any questions upon the 
subject?^ cried John, liftmg his head suddenly^ 
and 'looking from the coroner to the clergyman. 
** How should this paper concern me 7* 

" I regret to say that it does concern you Terr 
materiaUy, Mr. Mellish/' the rector answered 
gently. 
( John's angry spirit revolted against that gentle- 
ness. What right had they to speak to him like 
this? Why did they look at him with those 
graTe, pitying Ibces ? Why did they drop their 
Toices to that horrible tone in which the bearers 
of eTil tidings pave their way to the announce- 
ment of some oTerwhebning calamity ? 

^ Let me see this paper, then, if it concerns 
me,** John said Tery carelessly. ^ Oh, my Grod T 
he thought, ''what is this misery that k coming 
iqpon me? What is this hideous aTalanche of 
trouble which is slowly descending to crush me 7* 

''You do not wish 'to hear anything from 
DfA T asked the coroner. 



"Mr wife! my wife! what wife?" 23 

*'No, no!" cried John savagely. **I only 
want to see that paper." He pointed as he spoke 
to the wet and blood-stained document under 
Mr. Hayward's hand. 

"You may go, then. Dork," the coroner said 
quietly; "and be sure you do not mention this 
business to • any one. It is a matter of purely 
private interest, and has no reference to the 
murder. You will remember ?" . 

" Yes, sir." 

The constable bowed respectftdly to the three 
gentlemen and left the room. He was very glad 
to be so well out of the business. 

"They needn't have (?aZfe(i me," he thought (To 
call, in the northern patois, is to scold, to abusa) 
" They needn't have said it was repri — what's its 
name — ^to keep the paper. I might have burnt it, 
if I'd liked, and said naught about it" 

" Now," said John, rising and walking to the 
table as the door closed upon the constable, " now 
then, Mr. Hayward, let me see this paper. If it 
concerns me, or any one connected with me, I 
have a right to see it" 

" A right which I will not dispute," the coroner 
answered gravely, as he handed the blood-stained 



24 AURORA FLOYD. 

doeon^nt to Mr. Mellidi. "I only beg you to 
believe in my heartfelt sympathy with you in 

this " 

" Let me alone I" cried John, 'wavii^ the speaker 
away from him as he snatched the paper fix)m his 
hand; ^let me alone! Can't you see that I'm 
mearly mad ?" 

He walked to the window, and with his back to 
the coroner and Mr. LofthouBe, examined the 
blotched and blotted document in his hands. He 
stared for a long time at those blurred and half- 
illegible lines before he became aware of their 
fiill meaning. But at last the significaticm 
of that miserable paper grew dear to him, 
and with a loud cry of anguish he dropped into 
ike chair from which be had risen, and coyered 
his face with his strcoig right hand. He held the 
paper in the left, crumpled and crushed by the 
GonyulsiTe pi^ssure of his grasp. 

** My God !" he ejaculated, after that first cry 
cf anguish, — " my Grod I I never thought of this. 
I never could have imagined this." 

Neither the coroner nor the clergyman epcke. 
What could they say to him? Sympathetic 
WOtAb could have no power to lessen sudhi a grief 



**MY wife! my wife! what wife?" 25 

as this; they would only fret and harass the 
strong man in his agony ; it was better to obey 
him ; it was far better to let him alone. 

He rose at last^ after a silence that seemed long 
to the spectators of his grie£ 

" Gentlemen," he said, in a loud, resolute Toioe 
that resounded through the little room, ^^ I giye 
you my solemn word of honour that when Archi- 
bald Floyd's daughter married me, she beUeved 
this man, James Conyers, to be dead." 

He struck his clenched first upon the table, and 
looked with proud defiance at the two men. 
Then, with his left hand, the hand that grasped 
the blood-stained paper, thrust into his breast, he 
walked out of the room. He walked out of the 
room and out of the house, but not homewards. 
A grassy lane, opposite the Golden lion, led 
away to a great waste of brown turf, called 
Harper's Common. John Mellish walked slowly 
along this lane, and out upon this quiet commcoir 
land, lonely even in the broad summer daylight. 
As he closed the fiye-barred gate at the end of 
the lane, and emerged upon the open waste, he 
seemed to shut the door of the world that lay 
behind him, and to stand alone with his great 



26 AURORA FLOYD. 

grief, under the low, sunless, summer sky. The 
dreary scene before him, and the gray atmosphere 
above his head, seemed in stiange harmony with 
,his grief. The reedy water-pools, unbroken by a 
ripple; the barren verdure, burnt a dull grayish 
brown by the summer sun; the bloomless heather, 
and the fiowerless rushes, — all things upon which 
he looked took a dismal colouring from his own 
desolation, and seemed to make him the more 
desolate. The spoiled child of fortune, — ^the 
popular young squire, who had never been contra- 
dicted in nearly two-and-thirty years, — the happy 
husband, whose pride in his wife had touched 
upon that narrow boundary-line which separates 
the sublime from the ridiculous, — ah I whither had 
they fled, all these shadows of the happy days 
that were gone ? They had vanished away ; they 
had fallen into the black gulf of the cruel past. 
The monster who devours his children had taken 
back these happy ones, and a desolate man was 

left in their stead. A desolate man, who looked 

• 

at a broad ditch and a rushy bank, a few paces 
from where he stood, and thought, *^ Was it I who 
leapt that dike a month ago to gather forget-me- 
nots for my wife ?" 



"MY wife! my wdfeI what wife?^ 27 

He asked himself that question, reader, which 
we must all ask ourselves sometimes. Was he 
really that creature of the irrecoverable past? 
Even as I write this, I can see -that common-land 
of which I write. The low sky, the sunburnt 
grass, the reedy water-pools, the flat landscape 
stretching far away on every side to regions that 
are strange to me. I can recall every object in 
that simple scene,— rthe atmosphere of the sunless 
day, the sounds in the soft summer air, the voices 
of the people near me ; I can recall everything 
except — my9elf. This miserable ego is the one 
thing that I cannot bring back ; the one* thing 
that seems strange to me ; the one thing that I 
can scarcely believe in. If I went back to that 
northern common-land to-morrow, I should re- 
cognize every hillock, every scrap of furze, or 
patch of heather. The few years that have gone 
by since I saw it will have made a scarcely per- 
ceptible difference in the features of the famiUar 
place. The slow changes of nature, immutable in 
her harmonious law, will have done their work ac- 
cording to that unalterable law; but this wretched 
me has undergone so complete a change that if 
you could bring me back that alter ego of the past. 



28 AUBORA, FLOTD. 

I should be tmable to recognize tlie strange 
creature ; and yet it is by no volcanic shocks, na 
rending asunder of rocky masses, no great con- 
TuLdonSy or terrific agonies of nature, that the 
change has come about ; it is rather by a slow^ 
monotonous wearing away of salient points; an 
imperceptible adulteration of this or that con- 
stituent part ; an addition here, and a subtraction 
there, that the transformation takes place. It iB 
hard to make a man believe in the physiologists, 
who declare that the hand which uses his pen to* 
day is not the same hand that guided the quiU 
with which he wrote seven years ago. He finds 
it very dij£cult to believe this ; but let him take 
out of some forgotten writing-desk, thrust into a 
comer of his limiber-room, those letters which he 
wrote seven years ago, and which were afterwards 
returned to him by the lady to whom they were 
addressed, and the question which he will ask 
himself, as he reads the faded lines, will most 
surely be, ** Was it I who wrote this bosh ? Was 
it I who called a lady with white eyelashes Hhe 
guiding star of a lonely life '? Was it I who was 

* inexpreisibly miserable ' with one «, and looked 

* forward with unutterable anxiety to the party in 



*' MY WIFE ! MY WIFE ! WHAT WIFE ?" 29 

Onslow Square, at which I onoe more should look 
into those soft blue eyes ?' What party in Ons- 
low Square ? Nan mi recordo. * Those soft blue 
e jes ' were garnished with white lashes, and the 
lad J to whom the letters were written, jilted me, 
to marry a rich soap-bdilar.'' ETeaa the law takes 
cognizance of this wonderful transformation. The 
debt which Smith contracts in 1850 is nuU and 
void in 1857. The Smith of '50 may hare been 
an extrayagant rc^e ; the Smith of '57 may be 
a conscientious man, who would not cheat his 
creditcMTs of a farthing. Shall Smith the second 
be called upcm to pay the debts oi Smith the 
first ? I leave that question to Smith's conscience 
and the metaphysicians. Surely the same law 
chould hold good in breach of promise of marriage. 
Smith the first may have adored Miss Brown; 
Smith the second may detest her. Shall Smith 
of 1857 be called upon to perform the contract 
entered into by that other Smith of 1850 ? The 
French criminal law goes still further. The 
murderer whose crime remains imsuspected for 
ten years can laugh at the police-officers who 
discover his guilt in the eleventh. Surely this 
must be because the real murderer is no longer 



30 AURORA FLOYD. 

amenable to justice ; because the hand that struck 
the blow, and tlie brain that plotted the deed, are 
alike vanished. 

Poor John Mellish, with the world of the past 
crumbled at his feet, looked out at the blank 
future, and mourned for the people who were dead 
and gone. 

He flung himself at full length upon the 
stunted grass, and taking the crumpled paper 
from his breast, unfolded it and smoothed it out 
before him. 

It was a certificate of marriage. The certificate 
of a marriage which had been solemnized at the 
parish church of Doyer, upon the 2nd of July, 1856, 
between James Conyers, bachelor, rough-rider, of 
London, son of Joseph Conyers, stage-coachman, 
and Susan, his wife, and Aurora Floyd, spinster, 
daughter of Archibald Floyd, banker, of Felden 
Woods, Kent. 



31 



CHAPTER m. 



auroba's flight. 



Mbs. Mellish sat in her husband's room on the 
morning of the inquest, amongst the guns and 
fishing-rods, the riding-boots and hunting-whips, 
and all the paraphernalia of sportsmanship. She 
sat in a capacious wicker-work arm-chair, close to 
the open window, with her head lying back upon 
the chintz-covered cushions, and her eyes wander- 
ing far away across the lawn and flower-beds 
towards the winding pathway by which it was 
likely John Mellish would return fix)m the inquest 
at the Golden Lion. 

She had openly defied Mrs. Powell, and had 
locked the door of this quiet chamber upon that 
lady's stereotyped civilities and sympathetic sim- 
perings. She had locked the door upon the 
outer world, and she sat alone in the pleasant 
window, the flull-blown roses showering their 



32 AURORA FLOYD. 

scented petals upon her lap with every breath of 
the summer breeze, and the butterflies hovering 
about her. The old mastrff sat by her side, with 
his heavy head lying on her lap, and his big dim 
eyes lifted to her isLce. She sat alone, I have 
said; bnt Heaven knows she was not companion- 
less. Black care and corroding anxiety kept her 
faithful company, and would not budge from her 
side. What companiouB are so adheave as 
Ixouble and Barrow ? what associates so tenacians, 
what Mends so watchful and untiring? Ttm 
wretched girl stood akme in the centre of a sea 
of troubles, fearful to stretdi oat her hands to 
those who loved her, lest she should drag them 
into that ocean which wbb rising to overwheba 
her. 

'^ Ctti, if I could suffer alone r she thought; ^^if 
I could suffer all this misery akme, I think I 
would go through it to the last without comjlaia- 
ing; but the shame, the dbgiadatioii, the angv^ 
wiU come upon othimDS moie heavily than upon 
mew What will they no4 anfier ? what will th^ 
not endore, if the wieked madikess of my ywth 
^louM become knowm to the woddr 

Those others, of whose poasikfe grid and rKmi^ 



aurora's flight. 33 

she thought with such cruel torture, were her 
jbther and John Mellish. Her love for her hus- 
band had not lessened by one iota her loye for 
that indulgent father, on whom the foUy of her 
girlhood had brought such bitter suffering. Her 
generous heart was wide enough for botL She 
had acknowledged no ^divided duty," and would 
have repudiated any encroachment of the new 
affection upon the old; The great liyer of her 
love widened into an ocean, and embraced a new 
shore with its mighty tide; but that far-away 
source of childhood, from which affection first 
sprang in its soft infantine purity, still gushed 
in crystal beaaty frcau ite imsiillied spring. She 
would perhaps scarcely have recognized the coldly- 
measured affection of mad Lear's youngest daugh- 
ter — the affection which could divide itself with 
mathematical precision between father and hus- 
band. Surely love is too pure a sentiment to be 
so weighed in the balance. Must we subtract 
something from the origioal sum when we are 
called upon to meet a new demand ? or has not 
aflfection rather some magic power by which it 
can double its capital at any moment when there 
ii a run upon the bank? When Mrs. John 



84 AURORA FLOTD. 

Anderson becomes the moth^ of six children, she 
does not ^ay to her husband, ^ My dear John, I 
shall be compelled to rob yon of six-tenths of my 
affection in order to provide for the little ones." 
No ; the generous heart of the wife grows larger 
to meet the claims upon the mother, as the girl's 
heart expanded with the new affection of the wife. 
Every pang of grief which Aurora felt for her 
husband's misery was doubled by the image of 
her father's sorrow. She could not divide these 
two in her own mind. She loved them, and was 
sorry for them, with an equal measure of love and 
sorrow. 

" K— if the truth should be discovered at this 
inquest," she thought, ** I can never see my hus- 
band again; I can never look in his face any 
more. I will run away to the end of the world, 
and hide myself from him for ever." 

She had tried to capitulate with her fate ; she 
had endeavoured to escape the full measure of 
retribution, and she had failed. She had done 
evil that good might come of it> in the face of 
that command which says that all such evil-doing 
shall be wasted sin, useless iniquity. She had 
deceived John Mellish in the hope that the veil 



Aurora's flight. 35 

of deception might never be rent in twain, that 
the traih might be undiscovered to the end, and 
the man she loved spared &om cruel shame and 
grief. But the fruits of that foolish seed, sown 
long ago in the day of her dj^bedienoe, had 
grown up around her and hedged her in upon 
every side, and she had been powerless to cut a 
pathway for herself through the noxious weeds 
that her own hands had planted. 

She sat with her watch in her hand, and her 
eyes wandered every now and then from the 
gardens before her to the figures on the diaL 
John Mellish had left the house at a little after 
nine o'clock, and it was now nearly two. He had 
told her that the inquest would be over in a 
couple of hours, and that he would hurry home 
directly it was finished, to tell her the result. 
What would be the result of that inquest? What 
inquiries might be made? what evidence might, 
by some unhappy accident, be produced to com- 
promise or to betray her? She sat in a dull 
stupor, waiting to receive her sentence. What 
would it be ? Condemnation or release ? Ij her 
secret should escape detection, if James Conyers 
should be allowed to carry the story of his brief 

VOL. ni. B 



86 AUEORA FLOYD. 

married life to the grave, what reKef, what release 

for the wretched girl, whose worst sin had been to 

mistake a bad man for a good one ; the ignorant . 

trustfulness of a child who is ready to accept any 

Aabby pilgrim for an exiled nobleman or a prince 

indisgtiisel 

It was half-past two, when she was startled by 

llie somid of a shambling footstep npon the 

gravelled pathway underneath the verandah. The 

fcctstep dowly shuffled on for a few paces ; then 

paused, then shuffled on again ; and at last a face 

4hat she hated made itself visible at the angle of 

the window, opposite to that against which she sat. 

It was the white face of the " Softy," which was 

poked cautiously forward a few inches within the 

iwrindow-frame. The mastiff sprang up with a 

growl, and made as if he would have flown at that 

Ugly leering fece, which looked like one of the 

liideous decorations of a Gothic building; but 

Atcrora caught the animal's collar with both her 

liands, and dragged him back. 

" Be quiet. Bow-wow,'* she said ; ".quiet, boy, 
— <iuiet." 

She still held him with one firm hand, soothing 
lum with the other. "What do you want?" she 



aubora's flight. 37 

asked, turning npon the " Softy " with a cold icy 
grandeur of disdain, which made her look like 
Kero's wife defying her false accusers. "What 
do you want with me ? Tour master fe dead, and 
you have no longer an excuse for coming here. 
Ton have been forbidden the house and the 
groimds. If you forget this another time, I shall 
request Mr. Mellish to remind you." 

She lifted her disengaged hand and laid it upon 
the window-sash ; she was going to draw it down, 
when Stephen Hargraves stopped her. 

" Dcai't be in such a hcory," he said ; " I waoat 
to speak to yoiL I've coom straight from th' 
inquest. I thought you might vrant to know all 
about it. I coom out o' friendliness^ though you 
did pay into me with th' horsewhip.'* 

Aurora's heart beat tempestuously against her 
adiing breast Ahl what hard duty that poor 
heart had done lately ! what icy burdens it had 
borne, what horrible expression of secrecy and 
terror had weighed upon it, crushiiig out all hope 
and peace ! An agony of suspense and dread con- 
vulsed that t(»tured heart as the " Softy '* tempted 
h^, tempted her to ask him the issue of the 
inquest, that she might receive from his lips the 

e2 



38 AUBORA FLOTD. 

sentence of life or death. She little knew how 
much of her secret this man had discoyered; but 
fihe knew that he hated her, and that he suspected 
enough to know his power of torturing her. 

She lifted her proud head and looked at him 
with a steady glance of defiance. "I haye told 
you that your presence is disagreeable^'*^ she said. 
^* Stand aside^ and let me shut the window." 

The ''Softy" grinned insolently, andholdingthe 
window-frame with one of his broad hands, put 
his head into the room. Aurora rose to leaye the 
window; but he laid the other hand upon her 
wrist) which shrunk instinctiyely from contact 
with his hard homy palm. 

''I tell you Fye got summat particklar to say to 
you," he whispered. ''You shall hear all about 
it I was one of th* witnesses at th' inquest, and 
Fye been hanging about eyer since, and I know 
eyeiything." 

Aurora flung her head back disdainfully, and 
tried to wrench ber wrist from that strong grasp. 

"Let me go !" she said. " You shall suffer for 
this insolence when Mr. Hellish returns." 

" But be won't be back just yet awhile," said 
the ^' Solly," grinning. " He's gone back to the 



Aurora's flight. 89 

Golden Lion. Th' coroner and Mr. Loftliouse, 
th' parson, sent for liim to tell him summat— 
mmmat aiout t/ouT hissed Mr. Stephen Har- 
graves, with his dry white lips close to Aurora's ear. 

" What do you mean ?" cried Mrs. Mellish, still 
writhing in the "Softy's" grasp, still restraining 
her dog from flying at him with her disengaged 
hand ; " what do you mean ?" 

" I mean what I say," answered Steeve Har* 
graves; "I mean that it's all found out They 
know everything; and they've sent for Mr. 
Mellish to tell him. They've sent for him to tell 
him what you was to him that's dead." 

A low wail broke from Aurora's lips. She had 
expected to hear this, perhaps ; she had, at any 
rate, dreaded it; she had only fought against 
receiving the tidings from this man ; but he had 
conquered her; he had conquered her as the 
dogged obstinate nature, however base, however 
mean, wUl always conquer the generous and im- 
pulsive soul. He had secured his revenge, and 
had contrived to be the witness of her agony. 
He released her wrist as he finished speaking, and 
looked at her — looked at her with an insolently 
triumphant leer in his small eyes. 



40 AURORA FLOYD. 

She drew herself up, proudly still, proudly and 
Inravely in spite of all, but with her face changed 
-—changed from its former eiqwession of restless 
.pain to the dull blankness of despair. 

« They found th' certificate," said the " Softy." 
** He'd carried it about with him, sewed up in's 
waistco-at." 

The certificate! Heaven have pity upon her 
^lish ignorance I She had never thought of 
that ; she had never remembered that miserable 
scmp of paper which was the legal evidence of her 
tdSlj. She had dreaded the presence of that 
husbaad who had arisen, as if from the grave, to 
pursue and torment her; but she had forgotten 
that other evidence of the parish register, which 
might also arise against her at any moment. She 
liad feared the finding of something — some letter — 
fiome picture — some accidental record amongst the 
possessions of the murdered man; but she had 
uevear thought of this most conclusive evidence, 
tim most incontrovertible proo£ She put her 
hand to her head, trying to realize the full horror 
of her position. The certificate of her marriage 
with her father's groom was in the hands of John 
Mellish. 



AUBORA's FUaHT. 41 

"What will he think of me?" she thought 
*^ How would he ever believe me if I were to tell 
him that I had received what I thought positiYe 
evidence of James Oonyers's death a year before 
my second marriage ? How coidd he believe in 
me ? I have deceived him too cruelly to dare to 
ask his confidence." 

She looked about, trying to collect herself, try- 
ing \o decide upon what she ought to do, and in 
her be\vilderment and agony forgot for a moment 
the greedy eyes which were gloating upon her 
misery. But she remembered herself presently, 
and turning sternly upon Stephen Hargraves, 
spoke to him with a voice which was singularly 
clear and steady. 

"You have told fme all that you have to teU," 
she said ; " be so good as to get out of the wfty 
while I shut the window." 

The " Softy " drew back and allowed her to close 
the sashes; she bolted the window, and drew 
down the Venetian blind, eflfectually shutting out 
her spy, who crept away slowly and reluctantly 
towards the shrubbery, through which he could 
make his way safely out of the grounds. 

"I've paid her out," he muttered, as he 



42 AURORA FLOTD. 

ghambled off under the shelter of the young 
trees; **rve paid her out pretty tidy. It's 
almost better than money," he said, laughing 
Bilenily — *' it's ahnost better than money to pay 
off them kind of debts." 

Aurora seated herself at John MelUsh's desk, 
and wrote a few hurried lines upon a sheet of 
paper that lay uppermost amongst letters and biUs. 
* My dear Love," — she wrote, — ^'^I cannot re- 
Biain here to see you after the disooyery which 
has been made to-day. I am a miserable coward ; 
and I cannot meet your altered looks, I cannot 
bear your altered voice. I have no hope that you 
can have any other feeling for me than contempt 
and loathing. But on some future day, when I 
am fiur away firom you, and the bewilderment of 
my present miseiy has grown less, I will write 
and eiq^ain everything. Think of me meieifiilly, 
if you can ; and if you can believe tfaat^ in the 
md»d conceafaments of the last few wedcs, the 
mainspring of my conduel has been my low for 
you^ you will only believe the tnortk God bfeas 
ym, my best and traest The pain of leavii^ you 
for ever is kss than the pain of knowing that you 
ImI eeadod to love me. Good4>ye.' 




aurora's flight. 43 

She lighted a taper, and sealed the envelope 
which contained this letter. 

^' The spies who hate and watch me shall not 
read this," she thought, as she wrote John's name; 
upon the envelope. 

She leffc the letter upon the desk, and, rising 
from her seat, looked round the room, — ^looked 
with a long lingering gaze, that dwelt on each 
familiar object How happy she had been 
amongst all that masculine litter! how happy 
with the man she had believed to be her husband I 
how innocently happy before the coming dovm. of 
that horrible storm-cloud which had overwhelmed 
them both I She turned away with a shudder. 

*^ I have brought disgrace and misery upon all 
who have loved me," she thought. "If I had 
been less cowardly, — ^if I had told the truth, — all 
this might have been avoided, if I had confessed 
the truth to Talbot Bulstrode." 

She paused at the mention of that name. 

*a will go to Talbot," she thought. "He is a 
good man. I will go to him; I shall have no 
shame now in telling him all. He will advise mo 
what to do ; he will break this discovery to my 
poor fe-ther." 



44 AUBOEA FLOYD. 

Aurora had dimly foreseen this misery when 
she had spoken to Lucy Bulstrode at Felden ; she 
had dimly foreseen a day iuwhich aU would be 
discovered, and she would fly to Lucy to ask for a 
shelter. 

She looked at her watch. 

"A quarter past three," she said. " There is an 
express that leaves Doncaster at five. I could 
walk the distance in the time." 

She unlocked the door, and ran up-stairs to her 
own rooms. There was no one in the dressing- 
room; but her maid was in the bedroom, arrang- 
ing some dresses in a huge wardrobe. 

Aurora selected her plainest bonnet and a large 
^ray cloak, and quietly put them on before the 
cheval glass in one of Une pretty French windows. 
The maid, busy with her own work, did not take 
any particular notice of her mistress's actions ; for 
Mrs. Mellish was accustomed to wait upon herself, 
and disliked any officious attention. 

^ How pretty the rooms look 1"^ Aurora thought, 
with a weary sigh ; ** how simple and countrified I 
It was for me that the new fumitare was chosen,— 
for me that the bath-room and conservatory were 
built." 



aurora's flight. 45 

She looked through the yista of farightly- 
caipeted rooms. 

Would they ever seem as cheerful as they had 
once done to their master? Would he still 
occupy them, or would he lock the doors, and 
turn his back upon the old house in which he 
had lived such an untroubled life for nearly l^o- 
and-thirty years ? 

**My poor boy, my poor boyT she thought. 
^' Why was I ever bom to bring such sorrow upon 
him?' 

There was no egotism in her sorrow for his 
grief. She knew that he had loved her, and she 
knew that his partmg would be the bitterest agony 
of his life; but^m the depth of mortification 
which her own womanly pride had undergone, she 
could not look beyond the present shame of the 
discovery made that day, to a future of happiness 
and release. 

" He will believe that I never loved him," she 
thought ** He will believe that he was the dupe 
of a designing woman, who wished to r^ain the 
position she had lost. What will he not think 
of me that is base and horrible ?" 

The face which she saw in the glass was very 



46 AUEORA FLOYD. 

pale and rigid; the large dark eyes dry and 
lustrous^ the lips drawn tightly down over the 
white teeth. 

^^ I look like a woman who could cut her. throat 
in such a crisis as this," she thought *^How 
often I have wondered at the desperate deeds 
done by women ! I shall never wonder again.'* 

She unlocked her dressing-case, and took a 
couple of bank-notes and some loose gold from 
one of the drawers. She put these in her purse, 
gathered her cloak about her, and walked towards 
the door. 

She paused on the threshold to speak to her 
maid, who was still busy in the inner room. 

"I am going into the garden. Parsons," she 
said ; ^^ tell Mr. Mellish that there is a letter for 
him in his study." 

The room in which John kept his boots and 
racing accounts was called a " study " by the re- 
spectful household.- 

The dog Bow-wow lifted himself lazily from his 
tiger-skin rug as Aurora crossed the hall, and 
came sniffing about her, and endeavoured to 
follow her out of the house. But she ordered him 
back to his rug, and the submissive animal 



AURORA'S FLIGHT. 47 

obeyed her, as he had often done in his youth, 
wh«D his young mistress usU to throw her doU 
into the water at Felden, and send the faithful 
mastiff to rescue that fair-haired waxen favourite. 
He obeyed her now, but a little reluctantly ; and 
he watched her suspiciously as she descended the 
flight of steps before the door. 

She walked at a rapid pace across the lawn, 
and into the shrubbery, going steadily southwards, 
though by that means she made her journey 
longer; for the north lodge lay towards Doncaster. 
In her way through the shrubbery she met two 
people, who walked closely side by side, en- 
grossed in a wl4B>ormg conversation, and who 
both started and changed countenance at seeing 
her. These two people were the " Softy " and Mrs. 
PowelL 

^^ So,** she thought, as she passed this strangely- 
matched pair, " my two enemies are laying their 
heads together to plot my misery. It is time that 
I leffc Hellish Park." 

She went out of a little gate, leading into some 
meadows. Beyond these meadows there was a 
long shady lane that led behind the house to 
Voncaster. It was a path rarely chosen by any of 



48 AURORA FLOYD. 

the household at the Park, as it was the longest 
way to the town. 

Aurora stopped at about a mile from the house 
which had been her own, and looked back at the 
picturesque pile of building, half hidden under 
the luxuriant growth of a couple of centuries. 

" Grood-bye, dear home, in which I was an im- 
postor and a cheat," she said ; " good-bye, for ever 
and for ever, my own dear love." 

While Aurora uttered these few words of 
passionate &rewell, John Hellish lay upon the 
sun-burnt grass, staring absently at the still water- 
pools under the gray sky, — ^pitying her, praying 
for her, and forgiving her £rai%the depth of his 
honest heart. 



49 



CHAPTEE IV. 

JOHN HSIiLISH FINDS HIS HOME DESOLATE. 

The sun was low in the western sky, and dis- 
tant village- clocks had struck seven, when John 
Mellish walked slowly away from that lonely waste 
of stunted 'grass called Harper's Common, and 
strolled homewards in the peaceful evening. 

The Yorkshire squire was still very pale. He 
walked with his head bent forward upon his 
breast, and the hand that grasped the crumpled 
paper thrust into the bosom of his waistcoat ; but 
a hopeful light shone in his eyes, and the rigid 
lines of his mouth had relaxed into a tender smile 
— a smile of love and forgiveness. Tes, he had 
prayed for her and forgiven her, and he was at 
peace. He had pleaded her cause a hundred 
times in the dull quiet of that summer's afternoon, 
and had excused her and forgiven her. Not 
lightly. Heaven is a witness ; not without a sharp 



50 AUBORA FLOYD. 

and cruel struggle, that had rent his heart with 
tortures undreamed of before. 

This revelation of the past was such bitter 
shame to him; such horrible degradation; such 
irrevocable infamy. His love, his idol, his 
empress, his goddess — ^it was of her he thought. 
By what hellish witchcraft had she been ensnared 
into the degrading alliance, recorded in this 
miserable scrap of paper? The pride of five 
unsullied centuries arose, fierce and ungovernable, 
in the breast of the country gentleman, to resent 
this outrage upon the woman he loved. God ! 
had all his glorification of her been the vain- 
boasting of a fool who had not known what he 
talked about ? He was answerable to the world 
for the past as well as for the present. He had 
made an altar for his idol, and had cried aloud to 
all who came near her, to kneel down and perform 
their worship at her shrine ; and he was answer- 
able to these people for the piuity of their divinity. 
He could not think of her as less than the idol 
which his love had made her — perfect, unsullied, 
unassailable. Disgrace, where she was concerned, 
knew in his mind no degrees. 

It was not his own humiliation he thought of 



JOHN HELLISH. FINDS HIS HOME DESOLATE. 51 

when his face grew hot as he imagmed the talk 

there would be in the country if this fatal indis- 
cretion of Aurora's youth ever became generally 

known; it was the thought of her shame that 

stung him to the heart. He never once disturbed 

himself with any prevision of the ridicule which 

was likely to fall upon himself. 

It was here that John Mellish and Talbot Bui- 
strode were so widely different in their manner of 
loving and suffering. Talbot had sought a wife 
who should reflect honour upon himself, and had 
fallen away from Aurora at the first trial of his 
faith, shaken with horrible apprehensions of his 
own danger. But John Mellish had submerged 
his very identity into that of the woman he loved. 
She was his faith and his worship, and it was for 
her departed glory that he wept in this cruel day 
of shame. The wrong which he found so l^ard to 
forgive was not her wrong against him; but that 
other and more fatal wrong against herself. I have 
said that his affection was universal, and partook 
of all the highest attributes of that sublime self-^ 
abnegation which we call Love. The agony which 
he felt to-day was the agony which ArchibaldiFloyd 
had suffered years beforei . It was vicarious torture, 

VOL. in. F 




52 JkimaUi flotp. 

endured for Aurora^ and not for himself; and bk 
his straggle against tliat sorrowful anger which he 
felt for heat folly, every one of h^ perfections 
took op aims npon the side of indignation, and 
fiyn^it against their own mistress. Had she been 
less beantifdl, less qneenly, less generous, great 
and noUe, he mi^t have forgiv^i her that self- 
inflicted diame more easily. But she was so 
perfect; and how ooold she, how coold she? 

He nnfelded the wretdied paper half a dooai 
times;, and read and renread every wend of that 
commonplace l^al docomait, before he coold 
convince himself that it was not some vile finrgery, 
cmooeted by James CSonyers for purposes <^ ex- 
tortion. But he prayed for h^ and forgave 
her. He pitied her with move than a mother's 
tender pity, with more than a t mno wf u l fodher's 
angidsh. 

'^Hy poor dear!" hesaidy ^my poor dear! die 
was only a school-giil iriien this certificate was 
first wiittffli: an innocent child ; ready to bdieve 
in any lies told her by a vinain." 

A dark finown obscoied the Yorkdiireman's 
brow as he thoo^ this ; a firown that would have 
praouBod no good to Mr. James Conyers, had not 



JOHN HELLISH FINDS HIS HOME DESOLATE. 53 

the txainer passed out of the reach of all earthly 
good aad evlL 

*^WiU God have mercy upon a wretch lik^ 
that ?" thought John Mellish ; ^^ will that man bo 
forgiven for having brought disgrace and misery 
u^ a trusting gifir ' "^ 

It will perhaps be wondered at, that Johu 
MeUish^ who suffered his servants to rule in hi^ 
household, and allowed his butler to dictate to 
him what wines he should drink; who talked 
freely to his grooms, and bade his trainer sit in 
his presence^—it wiU be wondered ai, perhaps, 
that this frank, free-spoken, simple-mannered 
young man should have felt so bitterly the shame 
of Aurora's unequal marriage. It was a common 
saying in Doncaster, that Squire Mellish of the. 
Park had no pride ; that he would clap poor folks 
on the shoulder and give them good-day as he 
lounged in the quiet street; that he would sit 
upon the comchandler's counter, slashing his hunt* 
ing-whip upon those popular tops, about which a 
legend was current^ to the effect that they were 
always cleaned with champagne, — and discussing 
the prospects of the September Meeting ; and that 
there was not within the three Eidings, a better 

F 2 



54 AUBORA FLOTD. 

landlcnd or a nobler-hearted gentlemaiL And all 
this was perfectly tme. John Hellish ifas en* 
tirely without personal pride; bnt there was 
another pride, which was wholly inseparable from 
his edacation and position^ and this was the pride 
of caste. He was strictly conseryatiye ; and 
although he was ready to talk to his good friend 
the saddler, or Ids trusted retainer the groom, as 
freely as he would haye held conyerse with his 
equals, he would haye opposed all the strength <^ 
his authority against the saddler had that honest 
tradesman attempted to stand for his natiye town, 
and would haye annihilated the groom with one 
angry flash of his bright bine eyes had the seryant 
infringed by so much as an inch upon the broad 
extent of territory that separated him from his 
master. 

The stru^le was finished before John Hellish 
arose from the brown turf and turned towards the 
home which he had left early that morning; 
%norant of the great trouble that was to fiJl iqpon 
Inm, and only dimly conscious of some dark 
ibreboding of the ooming of an nnknown honor. 
The stnig^e was oyer, and there was now only 
hope in his heart — the hope of clasping his wife to 




JOHN HELLISH FINDS HIS HOME DESOLATE. 55 

his breast^ and comfortiiig her for all the past. 
However bitterly he might feel the hamiliatioii of 
this madness of her ignorant girlhood, it was not 
for him to remind her of it ; his duty was to con- 
front the world's slander or the world's ridicuile, 
and oppose his own breast to the storm, while she 
was shielded by the great shelter of his love. His 
heart yearned for aome peaceful foreign land, in 
which. his idol would be &r away from all who 
could tell her secret, and where she might reign 
once more glorious and unapproachable. He was 
ready to impose any cheat upon the world, in his 
greediness of praise and worship for her — ^for her. 
How tenderly he thought of her, walking slowly 
homewards m that tranquil evening ! He thought 
of her waiting to hear from him the issue of the 
inquest^ and he reproached himself for his neglect 
when he remembered how long he had been 
absent 

^^But my darling will scarcely be uneasy," he 
thought; ^'she will hear all about the inquest 
from some one or other, and she will think that 
I have gone into Doncaster on business. She will 
know nothing of the finding of this detestable 
certificate. No one need know of it. Lofthouse 



66 AURORA FIX>TD. 

and Hayward are honourable men, and they will 
keep my poor girrs secret; they will keep the 
secret of her foolish youth, — my poor, poor girl I" 

He longed for that moment which he fonded so 
near; the moment in which he should fold her in 
hu arms and say, ^ My dearest one, be at peace ; 
there Js no longer any secret between ns. Hence- 
forth yonr sorrows are my sorrows^ and it is hard 
if I cannot help yoQ to cany the load lightly. We 
are one, my dear. For the first time since onr 
wedding^y, we are tndy nnited.*' 

He expected to find Anrora in his own room, 
for she had declared her int^iticm of sitting there 
an day; and he ran across the broad lawn to the 
iQse-diadowed yeiandahthat sheltered his fovoor- 
He retreat The blind was drawn down and the 
window bolted, as Anrora had bolted it in her wish 
to ezdode Mr. St^khen HargraTes. He knocked 
at the window, but there was no answer. 

*^ Lolly has grown tired of waiting,*' he thought. 

The second dinner4>ell rang in the hall idiile 
lb. MeUish lingered outside this darkened window. 
The commonplace sound reminded him of his 
social duties. 

«I must wait till dinner is over^ I siq^pose. 



JOHN HELLISH FIIO)S HIS HOME DESOLATE. 57 

before I talk to my darling/' he thought. ^^I 
must go through all the usual business^ for the 
edificatbn of Mrs. Powell and the servants^ before 
I can take my darling to my breast^ and set her 
mind at ease for eyer." 

John MeUish submitted himself to the indis- 
putable force of those ceremonial laws which we 
hare made our masters, and he was prepared to 
eat a dinner for which he had no appetite^ and 
wait two hours for itsi moment for wCc^ming 
his soul yearned, rather than provoke Mrs. Powell's 
curiosity by any deviationL from the common 
course of events. 

The windows of the drawing-room were open, 
and he saw the glimmer of a pale muslin dress at 
<me of them. It belonged to Mrs. Powell, who 
was sitting in a conten^lative attitude, gazing at 
ihe evening sky* 

She was not thinking of that western glory of 
pale crimson and shining gold. She was thinking 
that if John Melb'sh cast off the wife who had 
deceived him, and who had never legally been his 
wif<^ the Ycakshire mansicHi would be a fine |Jaoe 
:to live in; a fine place for a housekeeper who 
.knew how to obtain influence over her master. 



58 AURORA FLOYD. 

and who had the secret of his married life and his 
wife's dii^race to help her on to power. 

'^He's such a blind, besotted fool abont her/' 
thought the ensign's widow, 'Hhat if he breaks 
with her to-morrow, he'll go on loving her just the 
same, and he'll do anything to keep her secret. 
Let it work which way it will, they're in my power 
—they're both in my power ; and I'm no longer 
a poor dependent, to be sent away, at a quarter's 
notice, when it pleases them to be tired of me." 

The bread of dependence is not a pleasant diet ; 
but there are many ways of eating the same food. 
Mrs. Powell's habit was to receive all favours 
grudgingly, a^ she would have given, had it been 
her lot to give instead of to receive. She measured 
others by her own narrow gauge, and was power- 
less to comprehend or believe in the frank impulses 
of a generous nature. She knew that she was a 
useless member of poor John's household, and that 
the young squire could have easily dispensed with 
her presence. She knew, in short, that she was 
retained by reason of Aurora's pity for her friend- 
lessness ; and having neither gratitude nor kindly 
feelings to give in return for her comfortable 
shelter, she resented her own poverty of nature. 



JOHN HELLISH FINDB HIS HOME DESOLATE. 59 

and hated her entertainers for their generosity. 
It is a property of these narrow natures so to 
resent the attributes they can envy, bnt cannot 
even understand ; and Mrs. Powell had been £eu* 
more at ease in households in which she had been 
treated as a lady-like drudge than she had ever 
been at Mellish Park, where she was received as 
an equal and a guest. She had eaten the bitter 
bread upon which she had lived so long in a bitter 
spirit ; and her whole nature had turned to gall 
from the influence of that disagreeable diet. A 
moderately-generous person can bestow a favour, 
and bestow it well; but to receive a boon with 
perfect grace requires a far nobler and more 
generous nature. 

John Mellish approached the open window at 
-^hich the ensign's widow was seated, and looked 
into the room. Aurora was not there. The long 
saloon seemed empty and desolate. The decora- 
tions of the temple looked cold and dreary, for the 
deily was absent 

** No one here !" exclaimed Mr. Mellish, discon- 
solately. 

** No one here but me," murmured Mrs. Powell, 
with an accent of mild deprecation. 



60 'AUBOBA FLOYD. 

" But where is my wife, ma'am ?* 

He said those two small words, ^my wife," with 
such a tone of resolute defiance, that Mrs. Powell 
looked up at him as he spoket, and thought^ ''Ho 
has seen the certificate." 

" Where is Aurora?" repeated John. 

'' I believe that Mrs. MeUish has gone out" 

**Goneout! where?" 

'' You foi^et^ ' sir," said the ensign's widow 
reproachfully, — ^* you appear to foi^et your special 
request that I should abstaiu from all supervision 
of Mrs. Mellish's arrangements. Prior to that 
request^ which I may venture to suggest was un- 
necessarily emphatic, I had certainly considered 
myseK, as the humble individual chosen by Miss 
Floyd's aunt, and iuvested by her with a species 
of authority over the young lady's actions, in some 
manner responsible for " 

John MeUish chafed horribly under the merci- 
less stream of long words, which Mrs. Powell 
poured upon his head. 

''Talk about that another time, for Heaven's 
sake, ma'am," he said impatiently. " I only want 
to know where my wife is. Two words will tell 
me that, I suppose ?" 



JOHN MELLISH FINDS BIB HOME DESOLATE. 61 

" I am sorry to say that I am unable to afford 
you any information upon that subject/' answered 
Mrs. Powell ; ^^ Mrs. Mellish quitted the house at 
half-past three o'clock, dressed for walking. I 
have not seen her since.'* 

Heaven forgive Aurora for the trouble it had 
been her lot to bring upon those who best loved 
her I John's heart grew sick with terror at this 
finrt failure of his hope. He had pictured her 
waiting to receive him, ready to fall upon his 
breast in answer to his passionate cry, "Aurora, 
come I come, dear love ! the secret has been dis- 
covered, and is forgiven." 

" Somebody knows where my wife has gone, I 
suppose, Mrs. Powell ?" he said fiercely, turning 
upon the ensign's widow in his wrathful sense of 
disappointment and alarm. He was only a big 
child, after all, with a child's alternate hopefalness 
and despair ; with a diild's passionate devotion for 
those he loved, and ignorant terror of danger to 
those beloved ones. 

"Mrs. Mellish may have made a confidante of 
Parsons," replied the ensign's widow ; " but she 
certainly did not enlighten tti^ as to her intended 
movements. Shall I nng the bell for Parsons ?\ 



62 AUBOBA FLOYD. 

* If. you please." 

John Mellish stood upon the threshold of the 
French window, not caring to enter the handsome 
chamber of which he was the master. Why 
should he go into the house? It was no home for 
him without the woman who had made it so dear 
and sacred; dear, even in the darkest hour of 
sorrow and anxiety ; sacred, even in despite of the 
trouble his love had brought upon him. 

The maid Parsons appeared in answer to a mes- 
sage sent by Mrs. Powell; and John strode into 
the room and interrogated her sharply as to the 
departure of her mistress. 

The girl could tell very little, except that Mrs. 
Mellish had said that she was going into the 
garden, and that she had left a letter in the study 
for the master of the house. Perhaps Mrs. Powell 
was even better aware of the existence of this 
letter than the Abigail hersel£ She had crept 
stealthily into John's room after her interview with 
the " Softy " and her chance encounter of Aurora. 
She had found the letter lying on the table, sealed 
with a crest and monogram that were engrayed 
upon a blood-stone worn by Mrs. MeUish amongst 
the trinkets on her watch-chain« It was not 




JOHN HELLISH FINDS HIS HOME DESOLATE. 63 

possible therefore to manipulate this letter with 
any safety, and Mrs. Powell had contented her- 
self by guessing darUy at its contents. The 
« Softy " had told her of the fatal discovery of the 
morning, and she instinctiyely comprehended the 
meaning of that sealed letter. It was a letter of 
explanation and farewell, perhaps ; perhaps only 
of fiirewelL 

John strode along the corridor that led to his 
favourite room. The chamber was dimly lighted 
by the yellow evening sunlight which streamed 
from between the Venetian blinds, and drew 
golden bars upon the matted floor. But even in 
that dusky and uncertain light he saw the white 
patch upon the table, and sprang with tigerish 
haste upon the letter his wife had left for him. 

He drew up the Venetian blind, and stood in 
the embrasure of the window, with the evening 
sunlight upon his face, reading Aurora's letter. 
There was neither anger nor alarm visible in his 
face as he read ; only supreme love and supreme 
compassion. 

** My poor darling ! my poor girl ! How could 
she think that there could ever be such' a word 
83 good-bye between us I Does she thisik so 



lightly of my love as to belieye that it could £eu1 

her now, when she wants it most ? Why, if that 

man had lived," he thought^ his £Etce darkening 

with the memory of that nnbnried day which yet 

lay in the still chamb^ at the north lodge, — ^' if 

that man had lived, and had claimed her, and 

carried her from me by the right of the paper in 

my breast, I would have clung to her stiU; I 

would have followed wherever he went^ and would 

have lived near him, that she might have known 

where to look for a defender from every wrong : I 

would have been his servant, the willing servant 

and contented hanger-on of a boor, if I could 

have served her by enduring his insolence. So, 

my dear, my dear," murmured the young squire, 

with a tender snule, ^'it was wdrse than foolish to 

write this letter to me, and even more useless than 

it was cruel to run away from the man who would 

follow yon to the fiearthest end of this wide world." 

He put the letter into bis pocket, and took his 

hat from the taUa He was ready to start — ^he 

scarcely knew for what destination ; for the end 

of the world, perhaps — ^in his search for the woman 

he loved. But he was going to Felden Woods 

before beginning the longer journey, as he fully 




JOHN MELLISH FINDS HIS HOME DESOLATE. 65 

believed tibat Aurora would fly to her htiiei in 
her. foolish terror. 

^^ To think that anything could ever happen .to 
change or lessen my love for her," he said; 
** foolish girl ! foolish girl 1" 

He rang for his servant, and ordered the hasty 
packing of his smaUest portmanteau. He was 
going to town for a day or two, and he was going 
alone. He looked at his watch; it was only a 
quarter after eight, and the mail left Doncaster 
at half-past twelve. There was plenty of time, 
therefore; a great deal too much time for the 
feverish impatience of Mr. Mellish, who would 
have chartered a special engine to convey him, 
had the railway ofiSciab been willing. There 
were four long hours during which he must wait, 
wearing out his heart in his anxiety to follow the 
woman he loved, to take her to his breast and 
comfort and shelter her, to tell her that true love 
knows neither decrease nor change. He ordered 
the dog-cart to be got ready for him at eleven 
o'clock. There was a slow train that left Don- 
caster at ten ; but as it reached London only ten 
minutes before the mail, it was scarcely desirable 
as a conveyance. Yet after the hour had passed 




66 AURORA FLOTD. 

for its starting, Mr. Mellish reproached himself 
bitterly for that lost ten minutes, and was tor- 
mented by a fancy that, through the loss of those 
very ten minutes, he should miss the chance of an 
immediate meeting with Aurora. 

It was nine o'clock before he remembered the 
necessity of making some pretence of sitting down 
to dinner* He took his place at the end of the 
long table, and sent for Mrs. Powell, who ap- 
peared in answer to his summons, and seated 
herself with a well-bred affectation of not know-^ 
ing that the dinner had been put off for an hour 
and a half. 

" I'm sorry I've kept you so long, Mrs. Powell," 
he said, as he sent the ensign's widow a ladlefiil 
of dear soup, that was of the temperature of 
lemonade. " The truth is, that I — ^I — ^find I shall 
be compelled to run up to town by the maiL" 

" Upon no unpleasant business, I hope ?" 

^^Oh, dear no, not at all. Mrs. Mellish has 
gone up to her father's place, and — ^and — ^has 
requested me to follow her," added John, telling 
a lie with considerable awkwardness, but with no 
very great remorse. He did not speak again dur- 
ing dixmer. He ate anything that his servants 



JOHN HELLISH FINDS HIS HOME DESOLATE. 67 

put before him, and took a good deal of wine ; 
but he ate and drank alike unconsciously, and 
when the cloth had been removed, and he was 
left alone with Mrs. Powell, he sat staring at the 
reflection of the wax-candles in the depths of 
the mahogany. It was only when the lady gave 
a little ceremonial cough, and rose with the in- 
tention of simpering out of the room, that he 
roused himself from his long reverie, and looked 
up suddenly. 

"Don't go just this moment, if you please, 
Mrs. Powell," he said. ** K you'll sit down again 
for a few minutes, I shall be glad. I wished 
to say a word or two to you before I leave 
Mellish Park." 

He rose as he spoke, and pointed to a chair. 
Mrs. Powell seated herself, and looked at him 
earnestly; with an eager, viperish earnestness, 
and a nervous movement of her thin lips. 

"When you came here, Mrs. Powell," said 
John, gravely, "you came as my wife's guest, 
and as my wife's friend. I need scarcely say that 
you could have had no better claim upon my 
friendship and hospitality. K you had brought a 
regiment of dragoons with you, as the condition of 

VOL. in. (^ 



68 AUBOEA FLOTIX 

your visit) they woidd haTe been welcome; for 
I beiiered that your oomii^ would giye pleasme 
to my poor giil. If my wife bad been indebted 
to yon fi)r any word of kindneaa^ for any look 
of aflfoction, I would baire repaid Ibat debt a 
ihoosandrfold, bad it lain in my power to do so 
by any service, bowever difficult. Yon wocdd 
baTe lost nothing by yomr love toft my poor 
motherless girl, if any devotion of mine coold 
baye recompensed yon for that tenderness. It 
was only reasonable that I Gboold look to yon as 
the natond finlmd and counselor of my darling ; 
and I did so^ honestly and confidenlly. Forgnre 
flie if I teD yon that I Tery soon dibcoTered how 
much I had been mistaken in entertaining such a 
hope. I soon saw diat yon were no fiioid to my 
wife." 

^Mr.Mellishr 

^Oh, my dear madam, yon think becanse I 
kBeip hnntxi^-bools and gons in the room I call 
my stody, and becanse I remember no m(ae of 
die Latin fliat my tntor crammed into my head 
Aan die first line of tiie Eton Syntax, — yon 
Ibink, becaose Fm not dever, that I most needs 
beafiwL That'ayoiiirmKtake^lb&PiofweD; Fm 



L 



JOHN MELLISH FINDS HIS HOME DESOLATE. 69 

not clever enough to be a, fool, and IVe just 
sufficient perception to see any danger that assails 
those I iove. You don't like my- wife; you 
grudge her her youth and her beauty, and my 
fix)li8h love for her; and you've watched, and 
Kstened, and plotted — ^in a lady-like way, of course 
— to do her some evil. Forgive me if I speak 
plainly. Where Aurora is concerned, I feel very 
strongly. To hurt her little finger is to torture 
my whole body. To stab her once is to stab me 
a hundred times. I have no wish to be dis- 
courteous to a lady; I am only sorry that you 
have been unable to love a poor girl who has 
rarely failed to win friends amongst those who 
have known her. Let us part widiout animositjr, 
but let us imderstand each other for the first time. 
You do not like us, and it is better tiiat we should 
part before you learn to hate us." 

The ensign's widow waited in utter stupefaction 
until Mr. Mellish stopped, from want of breath, 
perhaps, rather than from want of words. 

All her viperish nature rose in white defiance 
of him as he walked up and down the room, 
chafing himseK into a fury with his recollection of 
the wrong she had done him in not loving his wife. 

G 2 



70 AURORA FLOTD. 

^^Yon are perhaps aware, Mr. MellisV' she 
isaid, after an awful pause, ^^that under such cir- 
cumstances the annual stipend due to &e for my 
eeryices cannot be expected to cease at your 
caprice; and that, although you may turn me 
out of doors,"— Mrs. Powell descended to this 
very commonplace locution, and stooped to the 
vemacalar in her dedre to be 8piteM,-«you 
must understand that you will be liable for my 
salary until the expiration of ^" 

'^ Oh, pray do not imagine that I shall repudiate 
any claim you may make upon me, Mrs. Powell," 
said John, eagerly; ^'Heayen knows it has been 
no pleasure to me to speak as plainly as I have 
spoken to-night. I will write a cheque for any 
amount you may consider proper as compensation 
for this change in our arrangements. I might 
have been more polite, perhaps; I might have 
told you that my wife and I think of travelling 
on the Continent, and that we are, therefore, 
breaking up our household. I have preferred 
telling you the plain truth. Forgive me if I 
have wounded you." 

Mrs. Powell rose, pale, menacing; terrible ; 
terrible in the intensity of her feeble wrath, and 



JOHN HELLISH FINDS HIS HOME DESOLATE. 71 

in the consciousness that she had power to stab 
the heart of the man who had afironted her. 

" You have merely anticipated my own intention, 
Mr. Mellish," she said. "I could not possibly 
have remained a member of your household after 
the very unpleasant circumstances that have 
lately transpired. My worst wish is, that you 
may find yourself involved in no greater trouble 
through your connection with Mr. Floyd's daugh- 
ter. Let me add one word of warning before 
I have the honour of wishing you good evening. 
Malicious people might be tempted to smile at 
your enthusiastic mention of your * wife ;' remem- 
bering that the person to whom you allude is 
Aurora Conyers, the widow of your groom, and 
that she has never possessed any legal claim to 
the title you bestow upon her." 

If Mrs. Powell had been a man, she would 
have found her head in contact with the Turkey 
carpet of John's dining-room before 'she could 
have concluded this speech ; as she was a woman, 
John Mellish stood looking her full in the fSeMse, 
waiting till she had finished speaking. But he 
bore the stab she inflicted without flinching 
under its cruel pain, and he robbed her of the 



72 AUBOBA FLOYD. 

gratificaticm she had hoped for. He did not let 
her see his anguish. 

^If Lofthoaae has told her the secret," he 
cried, when the door had closed upcm Urs. Powell, 
^rU horseiAip him in the church." 



k. 



73 



CHAPTER V. 

AN UNEXPECTED VISITOE. 

AuBOBA found a civil railway official at the Don- 
caster station, who was ready to take a ticket for 
her, and find her a comfortable seat in an empty 
carriage ; but before the train started, a couple of 
sturdy fanners took their seats upon the spring 
cushions opposite Mrs. MeUish. They were 
wealthy gentlemen, who feumed their own land, 
and travelled express ; but they brought a power- 
ful odour of the stable-yard into the carriage, and 
they talked with that honest northern twang 
which always has a friendly sound to the writer 
of this story, Aurora^ with her veil drawn over 
her pale £Etce, attracted very little of their atten- 
tion. They talked of farming-stock and horse- 
racHng, and looked out of the window every now 
and then to shrug their shoulders at somebody 
else's agriculture. 



74 AURORA FLOYD. 

I believe they were acquainted with the capa- 
bilities of every acre of land between Doncaster 
and Harrow, and knew how it might have been 
made ^^ worth ten shillin' an acre more than it was, 
too, sir," as they perpetually informed each other. 

How wearisome their talk must have seemed 
to the poor lonely creature who was running away 
troTOL the man she loved, — ^from the man who 
loved her, and would love to the end of time ! 

" I didn't mean what I wrote," she thought. 
"My poor boy would never love me less. His 
great heart is made up of unselfish love and gene- 
rous devotion. But he would be so sorry for me ; 
he would be so sorry ! He could never be proud 
of me again; he could never boast of me any 
more. He would be always resenting some in- 
gult, or imagining some slight. It would be too 
painful for him. He would see his wife pointed 
at as the woman who had married her groom. He 
would be embroiled in a hundred quarrels, a 
hundred miseries. I will make the only return 
that I can ever make to him for his goodness t 
me: I wiU give him up, and go away and hide 
myself from him for ever.'' 

She tried to imagine what John's life would be 




AN UNEXPECTED VISITOR. 75 

mthoat her. She tried to think of him in some 
future time, when he should have worn out his 
grie^ and reconciled himself to her loss. But she 
could not, she could not I She could not endure 
any image of him in which he was separated from 
his love for her. 

'VHow should I ever think of him without think- 
ing of his love for me T she thought. '^ He loved 
me from the first moment in which he saw me. 
I have never known him except as a lover; 
generous, pure, and true." 

And in this mind Aurora watched the smaller 
stations, which looked like mere streaks of whitened 
woodwork as the express tore past them ; though 
every one of them was a milestone upon the long 
road which was separating her from the man she 
loved. 

Ah, careless wives, who think it a smaU thing, 
perhaps, that your husbands are honest and gene- 
rous, constant and true, and who are apt to 
grumble because your next-door neighbours have 
started a carriage, while you are fain to be content 
with eighteenpenny airings in vehicles procured 
at the nearest cab-stand, — stop and think of 
this wretched girl, who in this hour of desolation 



76 ' AURORA FLOYD. 

recalled a thousand little wrongs she had done to 
her husband, and would have laid herself under 
his feet to be walked over by him could she have 
thus atoned for her petty tyrannies^ her pretty 
caprices ! Think of her in her loneliness, with her 
heart yearning to go back to the man she loved, 
and with her love arrayed a&:ainst herself and 
p,e.ai.g for hta. Sh. 1^ her ^M . h^- 
tod times during tluX four horns' journey ; some- 
times thinking that she would go back by the 
next train, and then again remembering that her 
first impulse had been, perhaps, after all, only too 
^orrect> and that John Mellish's heart had turned 
against her in the cruel humiliation of that morn- 
ing's discovery. 

Have yon ever tried to imagine the anger of 
a person whom you have never seen angry? 
Have you ever called^ up the image of a fece that 
has never k)oked on you except in love and 
gentleness, and invested that familiar countenance 
with the blank sternness of estrangement ? Au- 
rora did this. She acted over and over again in 
her weary brain the scene that might have taken 
place between her husband and herself. She 
remembered that scene in the hackneyed stage- 



AN UNEXPECTED VISITOR. 77 

play, which everybody affects to ridicale and 
secretly weeps at. She remembered Mrs. Haller 
and the Stranger, the children, the Ooimtess, the 
cottage, the jewels,^ the parchments, and all the 
old familiar properties of tibat weU-known fifth act 
in the simple, social tragedy ; and she pictured to 
herself John Hellish retiring into some distant 
country with his rheumatic trainer Langley, and 
becoming a misanthropical hermit, after the man- 
ner of the injured German. 

What was her life to be henceforth ? She shut 
her eyes upon that blank future. 

" I will go back to my father," she thought ; 
"I will go back to him again, as I went before. 
But this time there shall be no falsehoods, no 
equivocations ; and this time nothing shall tempt 
The to leave him again." , 

Amid all her perplexities, she dung to the 
thought that Lucy and Talbot would help her. 
SLe would appeal to passionless Talbot Bulstrode 
in behalf of her poor heart-broken John. 

" Talbot will tell me what is right and honour- 
able to be done," she thought. " I wiU hold by 
what he says. He shall be the arbiter of my 
future." 



78 AURORA FLOYD. 

# 

I do not believe that Aurora had ever enter- 
tained any very passionate devotion for the hand- 
some Cornishman ; but it is very certain that she 
had always respected him. It may be that any 
love she had felt for him had grown out of that 
very respect, and that her reverence for his charac- 
ter was made all the greater by the contrast 
between him and the base-bom schemer for whom 
her youth had been sacrificed. She had sub- 
mitted to the decree which had separated her 
from her a£Sanced lover, for she had believed in 
its justice ; and she was ready now to submit to 
any decision pronoimced by the man, in whose 
sense of honour she had unbounded confidence. 

She thought of all these things again and again 
and again, while the farmers talked of sheep and 
turnips, of Thorley's food, swedes, and beans, and 
com, ^»nd clover, and of mysterious diseases, 
which they discussed gravely, under such terms 
as " red gum," " finger and toe," &c. They alter- 
nated this talk with a dash of turf scandal ; and 
even in the all-absorbing perplexities of her do- 
mestic sorrows, Mrs. Mellish could have tumed 
fiercely upon these innocent farmers when they 
pooh-poohed John's stable, and made light of 



'AN UNEXPECfTED VISIT(MR. 79 

the reputation of her namesake the bay filly, and 
declared that no horse that came out of the 
squire's stables was ever anything better than a 
plater or a screw. 

The journey came to an end, only too quickly, 
it seemed to Aurora: too quickly, for every mile 
widened the gulf she had set between herself and 
the home she loyed ; every moment only brought 
the realization of her loss more fully home to her 
mind. 

"I will abide by Talbot Bulstrode's advice," 
she kept saying to herself; indeed, this thought 
was the only reed to which she clung in her 
trouble. She was not a strong-minded woman. 
She had the generous, impulsive nature winch 
naturally turns to others for help and comfort. 
Secretiveness had no part in her organization, and 
the one concealment of her life had been a per- 
petual pain and grief to her. 

It was past eight o'clock when she found herself 
atone amidst the bustle and concision of the 
King's Cross terminus. She sent a porter for a 
cab, and ordered the man to drive to Halfinoon 
Street. It was only a few days since she had 
met Lucy and Talbot at Felden Woods, and she 



80 AUBORA FLOYD. 

knew that Mr, Bulstiode and his wife were de- 
tained in town, waiting for the prorogation of the 
House. 

It was Saturday evening, and therefore a holi- 
day for the young adyoeate of the Cornish miners 
and their rights; but Talbot spent his leisure 
amongst Blue-books and Parliamentary Minutes, 
and poor Lucy, who might haye been shining, a 
pale star, at some crowded conversazione, was 
compelled to forego the pleasure of struggling 
upon the staircase of one of those wise individuals 
who insist upon inviting their acquaintances to 
pack themselves into the smallest given space con- 
sistent with the preservation of life, and trample 
upon eadi other's lace flounces and varnished 
boots Tdih smiling equanimity. Perhaps, in the 
universal fitness of things, even these fashionable 
evenings have a certain solemn purpose, deeply 
hidden under considerable surface-frivolity. It 
may be that they serve as moral gymnasia, in 
which the thews and sinews of social am^ty 
are racked and tortured, with a view to their in- 
creased power of endurance. It is good for a man 
to have his favourite com trodden upon, and yet 
be compelled to smile under the torture ; and a 



AN UNEXPECTED VISITOR. 81 

woman may leaan her first great lesson in forti- 
tude &om the destmction of fifty gmneas' worth 
of Mechlin, and the necesmty of assuring the 
destroyer that i^ is rather gratified than other- 
wise by Ihe sacrifice. Noblesse oblige. It is good 
to ** suffer and be strong." Cold coffee and tepid 
ice-cream may not be tiie most strengthening or 
delightM of food ; but there may be a moral diet 
provided at these social gatherings which is not 
without its usefidness. 

Lucy willingly abandoned her own delights j 
for she had that ladylike appreciation of society 
which had been a part of her education. Her 
placid nature knew no abnormal tendencies. She 
liked the amusements that other girls of her 
position lik^ She had none of tlie eccentric 
predilections which ^ had been bo fatal to her 
couMn. She was not like that lovely and iQus- 
trious Spanfeh lady wTio is said to love the cirque 
better than the opera, azni to have a more intense 
^a^reciation of a series of flying plm^s through 
tissue-paper-covered hoops than of the most 
elskhoTSiie fioriture of tenor or soprana She gave 
vsp something, therefore, in resigning the stereo- 
typed gaieties of the London season. But 



82 AURORA FLOYD. 

fleaven knows, it was very pleasant to her to 
make the sacrifice. Her inclinations were fatted 
lambs, which she offered willingly npon the altar 
of her idoL She was never happier than when 
sitting by her husband's side, making extracts 
fix)m the Blue-books to be quoted in some pam- 
phlet that he was writing; or if she was eyer 
happier, it was only when she sat in the ladies' 
gallery, straining her eyes athwart the floriated 
iron fretwork, which screened her from any 
wandering glances of distracted member in her 
vam efforte to see her husband in his place on 
the Government benches, and very rarely seeing 
more than the crown of Mr. Bulstrode's hat 

She sat by Talbot's side upon this evening, 
busy with some pretty needlework, and listening 
with patient attention to her husband's perusal 
of the proof-sheets of his last pamphlet. It was a 
noble specimen of the stately and ponderous style 
of writing, and it abounded in crushing arguments 
and magnificent climaxes, which utterly annihilated 
somebody (Lucy didn't exactly make out who), 
and most incontrovertibly established something, 
though Mrs. Bulstrode couldn't quite understand 
what. It was enough for her that he had written 



AN UNEXPECTED VISITOB. 83 

that wonderful oompositioiiy and that it was his 
rich baritone voice that rolled out the studied 
Johnsonese. K he had pleased to 'read Grieek 
to her, she would have thought it pleasant to 
listen. Indeed there were pet passages of Homer 
which Mr. Bulstrode now and then loved to recite 
to his wife, and which the little hypocrite pre- 
tended to admire. Ko cloud had darkened the 
calm beaten of Lncy's married life: She loved, 
and was beloved; It was a part of her nature 
to love in a reverential attitude, and she had no 
wish to approach nearer to her idol. To sit at 
her sultan's feet and replenish his chibouque; 
to watch him while he slept, and wave the 
punkah above his seraphic head; to love and 
admire and pray for him, — ^made up the sum of 
her heart's desire. 

It was close upon nine o'clock, when Mr. Bul- 
strode was interrupted in the very crowning sen- 
tence of his peroration by a double knock at the 
street-door. The houses in Halfinoon Street are 
small, and Talbot flung down his proof-sheet 
with a gesture expressive of considerable irri- 
tation. Lucy looked up, half sympathizingly, 
half apologetically, at her lord and master. She 

VOL. III. H 



84 AURORA FLOYD. 

held herself in a manner responsible for his ease 
and comfort. 

^ Who can it be, dear ?' she murmured ; " at 
such a time, too I" 

"Some annoyance or other, I dare say, my 
dear," answered Talbot. "But whoever it is, I 
won't see them to-night. I suppose, Lucy, I've 
given you a pretty fair idea of the effect of this 
upon my honourable friend the member for " 

Before Mr. Bulstrode could name the borough 
of which his honourable friend was the representa- 
tive, a servant announced that Mrs. Mellish was 
waiting below to see the master of the house. 
. " Aurora 1" exclaimed Lucy, starting from her 
seat and dropping the fairy implements of her 
work in a little shower upon the carpet ; ^* Aurora I 
It can't be, surely ? Why, Talbot, she only went 
back to Yorkshire a few days ago." 

" Mr. and Mrs. Mellish are both below, I sup- 
pose ?" Mr. Bulstrode said to^the servant. 

"No, sir; Mrs. MeUish came alone in a cab 
from the station, I believe. Mrs. Mellish is in 
the library, sir. I asked her to walk upstairs"; 
but she requested to see you alone, sir, if you 
please." 



AN UNEXPECTED VISITOR. 85 



" ril come directly," answered Talbot; " Tell 
Mrs. Mellish I will be with her immediately." 

The door closed upon the servant, and Lucy 
ran towards it> eager to hurry to her cousin. 

"Poor Aurora!" she said; ** there must be 
something wrong, surely. Uncle Archibald has 
been taken ill, perhaps ; he was not looking well 
when we left Felden. I'll go to her, Talbot ; Fm 
sure she'd like to see me first." 

"No, Lucy; no," answered Mr. Buktrode, 
laying his hand upon the door, and standing be- 
tween it and his wife; "I had rather you didn't 
see your cousm untQ I have seen her. It wiU 
be better for me to see her first." His face was 
very grave, and his manner almost stem as he 
said this. Lucy shrank from him as if he had 
wounded her. She understood him, very vaguely, 
it is true ; but she understood that he had some 
doubt or suspicion of her cousin, and for the first 
time in his life Mr. Bulstrode saw ou angry light 
kindled in his wife's blue eyes. 

" Why should you prevent my seeing Aurora T 
Lucy asked ; " she is the best and dearest girl in 
the world. Why shouldn't I see her ?" 

H 2 



86 AURORA FLOYD. 

Talbot Bulstrode stared in blank amazement at 
his mutinons wife. 

"Be reasonable, my dear Lncy," he answered 
very mildly ; " I hope always to be able to respect 
your cousin — as much as I respect you. But if 
Mrs. MeUish leaves her husband in Yorkshire, 
and comes to London without his permission,— 
for he would never permit her to come alone, — 
she must explain to me why she does so before I 
can suffer my wife to receive her." 

Poor Lucy's fair head drooped under this re- 
proof. 

She remembered her last conversation with her 
cousin; that conversation in which Aurora had 
spoken of some far-off day of trouble, that might 
bring her to ask for comfort and shelter in Half- 
moon Street Had the day of trouble come 
abeady ? 

"Is it wrong of Aurora to come alone, Talbot, 
dear ?' Lucy asked meekly. 

" Isit wrong ?" repeated Mr. Bulstrode, fiercely. 
" Would it be wrong for you to go tearing from 
here to Cornwall, child ?" 

He was irritated by the mere imagination of 



AN UNEXPECTED VISITOB, 87 

such an outrage, and lie looked at Lucy as if he 
half suspected her of some such intention. 

" But Aurora may have had some very particular 
reason, dear ?" pleaded his wife. 

" I cannot imagine any reason powerful enough 
to justify such a proceeding," answered Talbot; 
" but I shall be better able to judge of that when 
I've heard what Mrs. Mellish has to say. Stay 
here, Lucy, till I send for you." 

" Yes, Talbot." 

She obeyed as submissively as a child ; but she 
lingered near the door after her husband had 
closed it upon her, with a mournful yearning in 
her heart. She wanted to go to her cousin, and 
comfort her, if she had need of comfort. She 
dreaded the effect of her husband's cold and pas- 
sionless manner upon Aurora's impressionable 
nature. 

Mr. Bulstrode went down to the library to 
receive his kinswoman. It would have been 
strange if he had failed to remember that Christ- 
mas evening, nearly two years before, upon which 
he had gone down to the shadowy room at Felden, 
with every hope of his heart crushed, to ask for 
comfort from the woman he loved. It would 



88 AUBOBA FLOTD« 

have been strange if, in the brief interval that 
elapsed between his leaving the drawing-roonx and 
entering the library, his mind had not flown back 
to that day of desolation. K there was an infidelity 
to Lucy in that sharp thriU of pain that pierced 
his heart as the old memory came back, the sin 
was as short-Uyed as the agony which it brought 
Willi it. He was able now to say, in all singleness 
of heart, "I made a wise choice, and I shall never 
repent having made it." 

The library was a small apartment at the back 
of the dining-room. It was dimly lighted, for 
Aurora had lowered the lamp. She did not want 
Mr. Bulstrode to see her face. 

" My dear Mrs. Mellish," said Talbot gravely, 
**I am so surprised at this visit, that I scarcely 
know how to say I am glad to see you. I fear 
something must have happened to cause your 
travelling alone. John is ill, perhaps, or " 

He might have said much more if Aurora had 
not interrupted him by casting herself upon her 
knees before him, and looking up at him with a 
pale, agonized fac^, that seemed almost ghastly in 
the dim lamp-light. 

It was impossible to describe the look of horror 



AN UNEXPECJTED VISITOR. 89 

that came oyer Talbot Bulstrode's face as she did 
this. It was the Felden scene over again. He 
came to her in the hope that she would justify 
herseK, and she tacitly acknowledged her humilia- 
tion. 

She was a guilty woman, then ; a guilty crea- 
ture, whom it would be his painful duty to cast 
out of that pure household. She was a poor, lost, 
polluted wretch, who must not be admitted into 
the holy atmosphere of a Christian gentleman's 
home. 

" Mrs. Mellish I Mrs. Mellish !" he cried, « what 
is the meaning of this? Why do you give me 
this horrible pain again ? Why do you insist 
upon humiliating yourself and me by such a 
scene as this F' 

"Oh, Talbot, Talbot!" answered Aurora, "I 
come to you because you are good and honourable. 
I am a desolate, wretched woman, and I want your 
help — ^I want your advice. I will abide by it ; I 
wiU, Talbot Bulstrode ; so help me. Heaven." 

Her voice was broken by her sobs. In her 
passionate grief and con&sion she forgot that it 
was just possible such an appeal as this might be 
rather bewildering in its effect upon Talbo*. But 



9Q AURORA FLOYD. 

perhaps, even amid his bewilderment, the yoimg 
Comishman saw, or femcied he saw, something 
in Aurora's manner which had no feUowship with 
gailt ; or with such guUt as he had at first dreaded. 
I unagine that it must have been so y for his yoice 
was softer and his manner kinder when he next 
addressed her. 

"Aurora," he said, "for pity's sake, be calm. 
Why have you left Mellish Park? What is the 
business in which I can help or advise you ? Be 
calm, my dear girl, and I wiU try and understand 
you. Grod knows howmuchi wish to be airiendto 
you, for I stand in a brother's place, you know, my 
dear, and demand a brother's right to question 
your actions. I am sorry you came up to town 
alone, because such a step was calculated to com- 
promise you ; but if you will be calm and teU me 
why you came, I may be able to understand your 
motives. Come, Aurora, try and be calm." 

She was still on her knees, sobbing hysterically. 
Talbot would have summoned his wife to her 
assistance, but he could not bear to see the 
two women associated until he had discovered the 
cause of Aurora's agitation. 

He poured some water into a glass, and gave it 



AN UNEXPECTED YISTTOR. 91 

her. He placed her in an ea&y-chair near the 
open window, and then walked np and down the 
room nntil she had recoyered herself. 

^Talbot Bnlstrode/' she said quietly, after a 
long panse, ^ I want yon to help me in the crisis 
of my life. I mnst be candid with yon, therefore, 
and tell yon that which I wonld have died rather 
than tell yon two years ago. Yon remember the 
night npon which yon left Felden ?' 
" Eemember it ? Yes, yes." 

" The secret which separated us then, Talbot, 
was the one secret of my life, — ^the secret of my 
disobedience, the secret of my father's sorrow. 
Yon asked me to give yon an acconnt of that one 
year which was missing out of the history of my 
life. I conld not do so, Talbot; I would not! 
My pride revolted against the horrible humilia- 
tion. If .'you had discovered the secret yourself 
and had accused me of the disgraceful truth, I 
would have attempted no denial; but with my 
own lips to utter the hateful story — ^no, no, I 
could have borne anything better than that But 
now that my secret is common property, in the 
keeping of police-ofiScers and stable-boys, I can 
afford to tell you all. When I left the school in 



92 AURORA FLOYD. 

the Eue Saint-Dominique, I ran away to marry 
my father's groom 1" 

'' Aurora !" 

Talbot Bulstrode dropped into the chair nearest 
him, and sat blankly staring at his wife's cousin. 
Was this the secret humiliation which had pros- 
trated her at his feet in the chamber at Felden 
Woods? 

" Oh, Talbot^ how could I have told you this ? 
How can I teU you now why I did this mad and 
wicked thing, blighting the happiness of my 
youth by my own act, and bringing shame and 
grief upon my father ? I had no romantic, over- 
whelming love for this man. I cannot plead the 
excuses which some women urge for their mad- 
ness. I had only a school-girl's sentimental fency 
for his dashing manner, only a school-girl's Mvolous 
admiration of his handsome face. I married him 
because he had dark-blue eyes, and long eyelashes, 
and white teeth, and brown hair. He had in- 
sinuated himseK into a kind of intimacy with me, 
by bringing me all the empty gossip of the race- 
course, by extra attention to my favourite horses, 
by pampering my pets. All these things brought 
about association between us; he was always 



AN UNEXPECTED VISITOR. 93 

my companion in my rides; and he contrived, 
before long, to tell me his story. Bah! why 
should I weary you with it?" cried Aurora 
scornfully. "He was a prince in disguise, of 
course ; he was a gentleman's son ; his father had 
kept his hunters; he was at war with fortune; 
he had been ill-used and trampled down in the 
battle of life. His talk was something to this 
effect, and I believed him. Why should I dis- 
believe him? I had lived all my life in an 
atmosphere of truth. My governess and I talked 
perpetually of the groom's romantic story. She 
was a siUy woman, and encouraged my foUy ; out 
of mere stupidity, I believe, and with no suspicion 
of the mischief she was doing. We criticised the 
groom's handsome fstce, his white hands, his aristo- 
cratic manners. I mistook insolence for good 
breeding ; Heaven help me ! And as we saw 
scarcely any society at that time, I compared my 
father's groom with the few guests who came to 
Felden ; and the town-bred impostor profited by 
comparison with rustic gentlemen. Why should I 
stay to account to you for my foUy, Talbot 
Bulstrode? I could never succeed in doing so, 
though I talked for a week; I cannot account 



94 AURORA FLOYD. 

to myself for my madness. I can only look back 

to that horrible time, and wonder why I was 

mad," 

, " My poor Aurora ! my poor Aurora !" 

He spoke in the pitying tone with which he 
might have comforted her had she been a child. 
He was thinking of her in her childish ignorance, 
exposed to the insidious advances of an un- 
scrupulous schemer, and his heart bled for the 
motherless girL 

"My father foimd some letters written by 
tiiis man, and discovered that his daughter had 
affianced' herself to his groom. He made this 
discovery while I was out riding with James Con- 
yers, — ^the groom's name was Conyers, — ^and when 
I came home there was a fearful scene between 
us, I was mad enough and wicked enough to 
defend my conduct, and to reproach my father 
with the illiberality of his sentiments. I went 
even further : I reminded him that the house of 
Floyd and Floyd had had a very humble origin. 
He took me to Paris upon the following day. I 
thought myself cruelly treated. I revolted against 
the ceremonial monotony of the pension ; I hated 
the studies, which were ten times ipore difficult 



AN UNEXPECTED VISITOR. 95 

than anything I had ever experienced with my 
governess; I suffered terribly from the con- 
ventual seclusion, for I had been used to perfect 
freedom amongst the country roads round Felden: 
and amidst all this, the groom pursued me with 
letters and messages; for he had followed me 
to Paris, and spent his money recklessly in 
bribing the servants and hangersK)n of the school. 
He was playing for a high stake, and he played 
so desperately that he won. I ran away from 
school, and married him at Dover, within eight 
or nine hours of my escape from the Bue Saint- 
Dominique." 

She buried her &ce in her hands, and was silent 
for some time. 

** Heaven have pity upon my wretched igno- 
rance 1" she said at last; "the illusion under 
which I had married this man ended in about a 
week. At the end of that time I discovered that 
I was the victim of a mercenary wretch, wha 
meant to use me to the uttermost as a means of 
wringing money from my father. For some time 
I submitted, and my father paid, and paid dearly, 
for his daughter's folly ; but he refused to receive 
the man I had married, or to see me until I 




96 AUBOB/L FLOTD. 

separated mysett £raiii that man. He offered the 
groom an income, on Hie condition of his going to 
Australia, and resigning all association with me 
for ever. Bnt the man had a hi^ier game to play. 
He wanted to bring aboot a reconciliation with 
my fiather ; and he thought that in dne time that 
tender &ther^s resolution would have yielded to 
the fiirce of his lore. It was little better than a 
year after onr marriage that Imadea discovery 
that transformed me in one moment from a girl 
into a woman; a revengefdl woman, perhaps, 
Hr. Bnlstrode. I disoorered that I had been 
wronged, deceired, and outraged by a wretch who 
laughed at my ignorant confidence in him. I had 
learned to hate the man long before this oc- 
curred: I had learned to despise his shallow 
trickeries, his insolent pretensions ; but I do not 
think I felt his deeper in£amy the less keenly for 
that We were trayeUing in the south of France, 
my husband playing the great gentleman upon 
my jGaiher's money, when this discovery was made 
by me— or not by me ; for it was forced upon me 
by a woman who knew my story and pitied me. 
Within half an hour of obtaining this knowledge, 
I acted upon it I wrote to James Conyers, 



AN UNEXPECTED VISITOR. 97 

telling him I had discovered that which gave 
me the right to call upon the law to release 
me from him; and if I refrained from doing] so, 
it was for my father's sake, and not for his. I 
told him that so long as he left me unmolested 
and kept my secret, I would remit him money 
from time [to time. I told him that I left him to 
the associations he had chosen for himseK ; and 
that my only prayer was, that God, in His mercy, 
might grant me complete forgetfulness of him. I 
left this letter for him with the concierge^ and 
quitted the hotel in such a manner as to prevent 
his obtaining any trace of the way I had gone. I 
stopped in Paris for a few days, waiting for a 
reply to a letter I had written to my father, 
telling him that James Conyers was dead. Per- 
haps that was the worst sin of my life, Talbot. I 
deceived my father; but I believed that I was 
doing a wise and merciful thing in setting his 
mind at rest. He would have never been happy 
so long as he had believed the man lived. Tou 
understand all now, Talbot," she said mournfully. 
" Tou remember the morning at Brighton ?" 

" Yes, yes ; and the newspaper with the marked 
paragraph — ^the report of the jockey's death." 



98 AURORA FLOYD. 



9f 



^'That report was false, Talbot Bulstrode, 
cried Aurora. ^^ James Conyers was not killed. 

Talbot's face grew suddenly pale. He began 
to understand something of the nature of that 
trouble which had brought Aurora to him. 

"What, he was still living, thenr^ he said 
anxiously. 

" Yes ; until the night before last.** 

"But where — ^where has he been all this 
timer 

" During the last ten days — at Mellish Park.** 

She told him the terrible story of the murder. 
The trainer's death had not yet been reported 
in the London papers. She told him the dreadM 
story; and then, looking up at him with an 
earnest, imploring face, as she might have done 
had he been indeed her brother, she entreated 
him to help and counsel her in this terrible hour 
of need. 

" Teach me how to do what is best for my dear 
love," she said. "Don't think of me or my 
happiness, Talbot; think only of him. I will 
make any sacrifice; I will submit to anything. 
I want to atone to mypoor dear for all the misery 
I have brought upon him." 






AN UTKEXPECTED VISITOR. 99 

Talbot Bulstrode did not make any reply to 
this earnest appeal. The administratiye powers 
of his mind were at work ; he was busy summing 
up facts and setting them before him, in order to 
grapple with them fairly; and he had no attentioii 
to waste upon sentiment or emotion. He was 
walking up and down the room, with his eyebrowa 
knitted sternly over his cold gray eyes, and his 
head bent. 

, " How many people know this secret, Aurora ?" 
he asked presently. 

"I can't tell you that; but I fear it must be 
very generally known," answered Mrs. Mellish, 
with a shuddering recoll^tion of the "Softy's" 
insolence. ^^I heard of the discovery that had; 
been made from a hanger-on of the stables, a man 
who hates me, — ^a man whom I — ^had.a misunder-^ 
standing with." 

/' Have you any idea who it was that shot this 
Conyers ?' 

" No, not the least idea." 

" You do not even guess at any one ?" 

"No." 

Talbot took a few more turns up and down the 
small apartment, in evident trouble and per- 

voL. in. I 



100 AURORA FLOTD. 

plexity of mind. He left the room presently, and 
callBd at tiie foot of the staircase : 

** Jjacfj, my dear, come down to yoor cousin." 

Fm afiraid Urs. Bulstrode must haye been 
InrkiDg somewhere about the outside of the 
dmwing-room door, for she flew down the stairs 
•i the sonnd of the strong yoice^ and was by her 
Irasband's side two or three seconds after he had 
spoken. 

••O Talbotr* she said, "how long you have 
been ! I thought you would never send for ma 
What has been the matter with my poor dar- 
Kngr 

"Gk> in to her, and comfort her, my dear," 
Mr. Bulstrode answered, gravely: '^she has had 
ttoo^ trouble. Heaven knows, poor girL Don't 
•fltk her any questions;, Lucy ; but make her aa 
comfortable as you can, and give her the best 
laom you can find for her. She wiU stay wifii us 
as long as she remains in town." 

^Dear, dear Talbot,** murmured the yoong 
Oornishman's grateftil woiduq[qper, ^how kind you 
arer 

"•Kkidr cried Mr. Bobtrode ; ""sbe has need 
et 4rieiid% Imsj; and^ €iod know^ I will act a 




A3Si UNKXFECXSD VISITOR. 101 

brother s part towards her, futhfially ani faravdy. 
Yes, bravely !" he added, raismg his head ^mtk m 
almost d^aat gestuie as he sLoidy aaoeiided the 



What was ihe daik ^^lood wliich lie saw brood- 
iog so £ataUy orev tlie far hdaaoii ? He dared 
not &ink of what ii was, — lie dared not. even 
^acknowledge its iprasoMse; bat iheie was a aeaam 
of trouble and horror in his breast that told him 
the shadow was there. 

Lucy Bulstrode ran into the library, and flung 
herself upon her cousin's breast, and wept with 
her. She did not ask the nature of the sorrow 
which had brought Aurora an unexpected and 
uninvited guest to that modest little dwelling- 
house. She only knew that her cousin was in 
trouble, and that it was her happy privilege to 
offer her shelter and consolation. She would 
have fought a sturdy battle in defence of this 
privilege ; but she adored her husband for the 
generosity which had granted it to her without a 
struggle. For the first time in her life, poor 
gentle Lucy took a new position with her cousin. 
It was her turn to protect Aurora ; it was her turn 
to display a pretty motherly tenderness for the 

I 2 



102 AUBCttA nxnra 

tonialft creatoie wfaoae achipg head rested on her 



Hie Wesl-Eiid docks weie sttikii^ thiee,in the 
dead middle of the nighty when Ha MdUsh idl 
into a fereridi afamiber, eren in her sleeps eren 
in her deep repeatii^ ^;ain and ^;ain: ^My 
poor John! mj poor dear hife! what will become 
of him? mj ownfiddifid darinngP 



103 



CHAPTER VL 

TALBOT BDLSTRODE'S ADVICE. 

Talbot Bulstbode went out early upon the 
qniet Sunday morning after Aurora's arrival, and 
walked down to the Telegraph Company's Office 
at Charing Cross, whence he despatched a mes- 
sage to Mr. John Mellish. It was a very brief 
message, only telling Mr. Mellish to come to 
town without delay, and that he would find 
Aurora in Halfmoon Street. Mr. Bulstrode 
walked quietly homewards in the morning sun- 
shine, after having performed this duty. Even 
the London streets were bright and dewy in that 
early sunlight, for it was only a little after seven 
o'clock, and the firesh morning breezes catne 
sweeping over the house-tops, bringing health and 
purity from Shooter's Hill and Highgate, Streat- 
ham and Bamsbury, Richmond and Hampstead. 
The white morning mists were slowly melting 



104 



ATOHUk. nOTD. 



fiom the worn giaas in the Grieoi Park; and 
wetfT Cfe ai ure B ^ irfiQ had had no better shelter 
than the qniei sknr, n^oe ereepbi^ anay to find 
such wreldied lestb^-places as tiier m^t, in 
fliat firee eitj^ in whidir to sit fer an nnreasonahle 
time iqpona dooEsti^ar to aak a lidi cidRn Cv 
tiie priee of a loa^ is to cammit an indictable 



to beael 



the 



anljr il ma imj p niriHft 



tlinkkc rf these 





l^LBOT BULSTBODE's ADVICE. lOfi 

Christian love aiid Chridaaa duty^ He^work^ 
iBg for these poor far-away creatures, in their for^ 
gotten comer of the earth ; and here, around and 
about him, was ignorance more terrible, beoauseb 
hand-in-hand with ignorance of all good, there was 
the fatal experience of all eyiL The simple Oomish 
miner who uses his pickaxe in the region of his 
friend's skull, when he wishes ft) enforce an arga* 
ment, does so because he knows no other species of 
emphasis. But in the London universities of 
crime, knavery and vice and violence and sin 
matricidate and graduate day by day; to take 
their degrees in the felon's dock or on the scaffdcL 
How could he be otherwise than sorrowful, thinks 
ing of these things ? Were the Cities of the Plain 
worse than this city ; in which there were yet go 
many good and earnest men labouring patientiy 
day by day, and taking littie rest ? <• Was tiift 
great accumulation of evil so heavy that it rolled 
for ever back upon the untiring [Sisyphus? Or 
•did they make some imperceptible advance towards 
the mountam-top, despite of all discouragement ? 
With this weary question debating itself in his 
brain, Mr. Bulstrode walked along Piccadilly 
towards the com£irtable bachelor's quarters, whose 



106 AUIIOBA FIjOTD« 

most c(HiiiiioQ{daoe attzjbdtes Lucy had tamed to 
AcYOor and to j^ettiiiesB ; bat at the docn* of the 
Ciloaoester Cc^ee-honse Talbot paused to stare 
absently at a neryoos-locAJiig ehestnut mare, who 
insisted upcm going throfog^serend Ihrelypeifonn- 
ances iqpon her hind-1^8,TeTyiiiiich to the annoy- 
ance of an nnsharen osd^ and not particnlady to 
the advantage of*a onart Utile dog-cart to which 
die was harnessed. 

^Yon needn't poll her month to pieces, my 
man," cried a Yoice from the doorway of the hotel ; 
'nse her gently, and she'll soon qmet hersell 
Steady, my girl; stea^!" added the owner of 
^lis Yoice, walking to the dog-cart as he spoke. 

Talbot had good reason to stop short, for this 
gentleman was Mr. John Melli^ whose pale face, 
and loose, disordered hair betok^ied a sleepless 

He was going to qnng into the dog-cart, when 
Ins old fiiend tapped him <m the shoolder. 

^ThK is rather a locky accident, John; ioft 
yon're the very person I want to see," said Mr. 
BiiIs&od& **rve jnst tel^n^hed to you." 

Jdm Mdlish stared with a blank &ca 

'^ Don't hinder me, i^ease," he said; ^FU talk to 




TALBOT BULSTRODE's ADVICE. 107 

you by-and-by. Ill call upon you in a day or 
two. I'm just oflf to Felden. I've only been in 
town an hour and a half, and should have gone 
down before, if I had not been a&aid of knocking 
up the family." 

He made another attempt to get into the 
vehicle, but Talbot caught him by the arm. 

"You needn't go to Felden," he said; "your 
wife's much nearer." 

«Eh?" 

"She's at my house. Come and have some 
breakfast" 

There was no shadow upon Talbot Bulstrode's 
mind as his old schooKellow caught him by the 
hand, and nearly dislocated his wrist in a paroxysm 
of joy and gratitude. It was impossible for him to 
look beyond that sudden burst of sunshine upon 
John's face. If Mr. Hellish had been separated 
from his wife for ten years, and had just returned 
from the Antipodes for the sole purpose of seeing 
her again, he could scarcely have appeared more 
delighted at the prospect of a speedy meeting. 

"Aurora here!" he said; "at your house? My 
dear old fellow, you can't mean it ! But of course 
I ought to have known she'd come to you. She 



108 AUUHLL FLOZD. 

eonldn't have done anytliii^ better or imer, after 
haTDig beea ao fixdiah as to doubt me.** 

^SheeametomelbradvioeyJoIiiL ^ewanted 
me to adriBe her how to aot for your haf^Hness^ — 
joniBy yoa great YorkBhireman, and not her own." 

''KeflB her noble heaitr cried Mr. Hdlish, 
huskily. ^ And yoa told her ^ 




^Itoldhernothiiig; my dearfiellow; batlteQ 
yon to take your lawyer down to Doctor's Com- 
mons with yon to-moiiow morning, get a new 
hoence and many your wife for the second time^. 
in some qniety little^ ont-of-4he-way church in tiie 
CSty." 

Anzora had risen yery eaiiy npon that peaoefid 
Sonday morning. The few horns of fererifili and 
fitfbl deep had brought yery little comfort to 
her. She stood witfa her weary head leaning 
against the window-franfee, and looked hopelessly 
out into tiie empty London streel She looked 
out into tiie desolate beginning of a new life, the 
blank nneertainly of an wnloiown fdtnre. All the 
minor miseries pecoUar to a toflet in a stna^ 
loom were dool^ miserable to her. Locy had 
bioi^;ht Hie poor faiggageless trayeOer all the 
paraphernalia of the toflet-tabl^ and had arranged 



TALBOT BULSTKODE's ADVICE. 109 

everything with her own bnsy hands. '' But tie 
most insignificant trifle that Aniota touched in her 
eonsin's chamber hrooght bade the memory of 
Mme cosily toy chosen for her by her husband. 
She had travelled in ber white morning-dress, and 
Use soft lace and muslin were none the firesher for 
her journey ; but as two of Lucy's dresses joined 
together scarcely fitted her stately cousin, Mrs. 
Hellish was faJn to be content with her limp 
muslin. What did it matter ? The loving eyes 
whicb noted every shred of ribbon, every morsel of 
lace, every fold of her garments, were, perhaps, 
never to look upon her again. She twisted her 
hair into a careless mass at the back of her head, 
and had completed her toSet, when Lucy came to 
the door, tenderly anxious to know how she had 
cHeptto 

** I win abide by Talbot's decision,^ she repeated 
to herself again and again. ^If he says it is best 
for my dear that we should part, I will go away for 
^ver. I will ask my jEather to take me far away, 
and my poor darling shall not even know where I 
have gone. Iwill be true in whati do, and wiQ do 
it thoroughly.'* 

She looked to Talbot Bulstrode as a wise judge. 



110 AURORA FLOYD. 

to whose sentence she would be willing to submit. 
Perhaps she did this because her own heart kept 
for ever repeating, "Go back to the man who 
loves you. Go back, go back I There is no wrong 
you can do hini so bitter as to desert him. There 
is no unhappiness you can bring upon him equal 
to the imhappiness of losing you. Let me be your 
guide. Go back, go back !" 

But this selfish monitor must not be listened to. 
How bitterly this poor girl, so old in experience of 
sorrow, remembered the selfish sin of her mad 
marriage ! She had refused to sacrifice a school- 
girl's fooh'sh delusion; she had disobeyed the 
father who had given her seventeen years of 
patient love and devotion ; and she looked at all 
the misery of her youth as the fatal growth of this 
evil seed, so rebeUiously sown. Surely such a 
lesson was not to be altogether unheeded I Surely 
it was powerful enough to teach her the duty of 
sacrifice! It was this thought that steeled her 
against the pleadings of her own affection. It was 
for this that she looked to Talbot Bulstrode as the 
arbiter of her future. Had she been a Eoman 
Catholic, she would have gone to her confessor, 
and appealed to a priest — ^who, having no social 




TALBOT BULSTBODE'S ADVICE. Ill 

ties of his own, must, of course, be the best judge 
of all the duties involved in domestic relations — 
for comfort and succour; but being of another 
faith, she went to the man whom she most 're- 
spected, and who, being a husband himself, might, 
as she thought, be able to comprehend the duty 
that was due to her husband. 

She went down-stairs with Lucy into a little 
inner room upon the drawing-room floor ; a snug 
apartment, opening into a mite of a conservatory. 
It was Mr. and Mrs. Bulstrode's habit to break&st 
in this cosy little chamber, rather than in that 
awful temple of slippery morocco, funereal bronze, 
.and ghasUy mahogany, which npholaterers insist 
npon as the only legitimate pla^e in which an 
Englishman may take his meals. Lncy loTed to 
sit opposite her husband at the small round table, 
and minister to his morning appetite from her 
pretty breakfest equipage of silver and china. 
She knew — ^to the- smallest weight employed at 
Apothecaries' Hall, I think — ^how much sugar Mr. 
Bulstrode liked in his tea. She poured the cream 
into his cup as carefiilly as if she had been 
making up a prescription. He took the simple 
beverage in a great shallow breakfast-cup of fragile 



112 AUBORA FLOYD. 

turquoise SeYres, that had cost seven guineas ; and 
had been made for Madame du Barry, the rocoeo- 
merchant had told Talbot. (Had his customer 
been a lady, I fear M&rie Antoinette would have 
been described as the original possessor of this 
porcelain.) Mrs. Bulstrode loved to minister to 
her husband. She picked the bloated livers of 
martyred geese out of the Strasburg pies for his 
delectation ; she spread the buttar upon his dry 
toast ; and pampered and waited on him, serving 
him as only such women [serve their idok. But 
this morning she had her cousin's sorrows to com- 
fort ; and she established Aurora in a capacious^ 
chintz-covered easy-chair on the threshold of the^ 
conservatory^ and seated herseK at her feet. 

"My poor pale darling!" she said, tenderiy, 
'^what can I do to bring the roses back to your 
cheeks?" 

** Love me and pity me, dear," Aurora answered, 
gravely ; " but don't ask me any questions." 

The two women sat thus for some time, Aurora's 
handsome head bent over Lucy's fair face, and her 
hands clasped in both Lucy's hands. They talked 
very little, and only spoke then of indifferent 
matters^ or of Luc/s happiness and Talbot's par* 




TALBQX BULSTBOns'S ADVICE. 113 

liajientaiy caieec The little dock over the 
cliiiimey-piece strack the quarter before ei^it — 
they were yery early, tiiese nnfiishionable people — 
and a minute afterwards Mrs. Bolstrode heard hear 
husband's step upon the stairs, returning fit>m his 
ante-break£EU3t walk. It was his habit to take a 
eonstitutional strdl in the Green Park, now and 
then, so Lucy had thou^ nothing of this early 
excursion* 

*^ Talbot has let himself in with his latch-key,'* 
said Mrs. Bulstrode ; ^ and I may pour out the tea, 
Aurora. But listen, dear ; I thiuk there's some 
one with him." 

There was no need to bid Aurora listen ; she 
had started fiom her low seat, and stood erect and 
motionless, breathing in a quic^ agitated manner, 
and looking towards the door. Besides Talbot 
Bulstrode's step tiiere was another, quicker and 
heavier ; a'step she knew so welL 

The door was opened, and Talbot entered the 
room, followed by a visitor, who pushed aside lus 
host with very little attention to the laws of civil- 
ized society, and, indeed, nearly drove Mx. BuU 
strode backwards into a gilded basket of flowers. 
But this stalwart John Kellifili had no intention (tf 



114 AUBORA FLOTD. 

being unmannerly or brutaL He pushed aside his 
friend only as he would have pushed, or tried to 
push, aside a regiment of soldiers with fixed 
bayonets, or a Lancaster gun, or a raging ocean, 
or any other impediment that had come between 
him and Aurora. He had her in his arms before 
she could even cry his name aloud, in h^ glad 
surprise ; and in another moment she was sobbing 
on his breast 

*' **My darling! my pet! my own!** he cried, 
smoothing her dark hair with his broad hand, and 
Uossing her and weeping oyer her,— «my own 
love! How could you do this? how could you 
wrong me so much ? Hy own precious darling ! 
had you learnt to know me no bett^ than tUt, in 
aU our hajqpy married life T 

^I came to ask Talbot's advice, Jcdm," die said, 
eamesdy ; ^aud I mean to abide by it, however 
cruel it may seem.** 

]fr« Bolstiode smiled gravely, as he watched 
these two foolish people. He was very mudi 
pkttsed with his pari in the little domestic drama; 
and he eontenqplated them with a sublime con- 
seiiNiSDtegs of being die audkfaor of aU tius loff^^ 
For they weie hoffy. The poet has aaid, tibere 



TALBOT BULSTRODE'S ADVICE. 115 

are some moments— very rare, very precious, very 
brief — ^which stand by themselves, and have their 
perfect fiilness of joy within their own fleeting 
span, taking nothing from the past, demanding 
nothing 'of the fntore. Had John and Aurora 
known that they were to be separated by the 
breadth of Europe for the remainder of their 
several lives, they would not the less have wept 
joyful tears at the pure blissfulness of this meet- 
ing. 

** You asked me for my advice, Aurora," said 
Talbot, " and I bring it you. Let the past die 
with the man who died the other night. The 
future is not yours to dispose of; it belongs to 
your husband, John Mellish." 

Having delivered himself of these oraculair sen«^ 
tences, Mr. Bulstrode seated himself at the break- 
fast-table, and looked into the mysterious and 
cavernous interior of a raised pie, with such an in- 
tent gaze, that it seemed as if he never meant to 
look out of it. He devoted so many minutes to. 
this serious contiemplation, that by the time he) 
looked up again, Aurora had become quite calm, 
while Mr. Mellish affected an unnatural gaiety, and> 
exhibited no stronger sign of pc^t emotion than a^ 

VOL. m. K 



116 AUBOBA FLOYD. 

certain inflamed appearance in the region of his 
eyelids. 

But this stalwart, devoted, impressionable York- 
shireman ate a most extraordinary repast in 
bonoor of this rennion. He spread mniStard on 
his mu£Sns. He poured Worcester sauce into his 
coffee, and cream over his devilled cutlets. He 
showed his gratitude to Lucy by loading her plate 
with comestibles she didn't want. He talked per- 
petually, and devoured incongruous viands in 
utter absence of mind. He shook hands with 
Talbot so many times across the breakfiBist-tabley 
Ihat he exposed the lives or limbs of the whole 
party to imminent penl from the boiling water in 
the urn. He threw himself into a paroxysm of 
oooglmig, and made himself scarlet in the fetce, 
by an injudicious use of cayenne pepper ; and he 
eodiibited himself altogether in such an imbecile 
light that Talbot Bulstrode was compelled to 
have recourse to all sorts of expedients to keep 
the servants out of the room during the progress 
d that rather noisy and bewildering repast 

The Sunday papers were brought to the master 
of the house before break£Eist was over ; and while 
John talked^ ate, and gesticulated, Mr. Bulstrode 




TALBOT BULSTRODE'S ADVICE. 117 

liid himself behind the open leaves of the latest 
edition of the * Weekly Dispatch,' reading a para- 
graph that appeared in that journal. 

This paragraph gave a brief acconnt of the 
murder and the inquest at Mellish; and wound 
up by that rather stereotyped sentence, in which 
the public are informed that "the local police are 
giving unremitting attention to the affair, and we 
think we may venture to afiSrm that they have 
obtained a due which will most probably lead 
to the early discovery of the guilty party." 

Talbot BulstrodCy with the newspaper still 
before his face^ sat for some little time frowning 
darkly at the page upon which this paragraph 
•appeared. The horrible shadow, whose nature he 
would not acknowledge even to himself once more 
lowered upon the horizon which had just seemed 
so bright and dear. 

" I would give a thousand pounds," he thoughti 
^' if I could find the murderer of this man." 



K 2 



118 AURORA FLOTD. 



CHAPTER Vn. 

ON THK WATCH. 

Very soon after breakfjast, upon that happy Sab- 
bath of reunion and contentment, John Mellish 
drove Aurora to Felden Woods. It was necessary 
that Archibald Floyd should hear the story of the 
trainer's death, from the lips of his own chUdren, 
before newspaper paragraphs terrified him with 
some imperfect outline of the truth. 

The dashing phaeton in which Mr. Bulstrode was 
in the habit of driving his wife was brought to the 
door as the church-bells were calling devout citi- 
zens to their morning duties; and at that un- 
seemly hour John Mellish smacked his whip, and 
dashed off in the direction of Westminster Bridge. 

Talbot Bulstrode's horses soon left London be- 
hind them, and before long the phaeton was driv- 
ing upon trim park-like roads, over-shadowed by 
luxuriant foliage, and bordered here and there by 



ON THE WATCH. 119 

exquisitely-ordered 'gardens and rustic villas, that 
glittered whitelyin the sunshine. The holy peace 
of the quiet Sabbath was upon every object that 
they passed, even upon the leaves and flowers, as 
it seemed to Aurora. The birds sang subdued and 
murmuring harmonies ; the light summer breeze 
* scarcely stirred the deep grass, on which the lazy 
cattle stood to watch the phaeton dash by. 

Ah, how happy Aurora was, seated by the side 
of the man whose love had outlasted every trialt 
How happy now that the dark wall that had 
divided them was shattered, and they were indeed 
united ! John Mellish was as tender and pitying 
towards her, as a mother to her forgiving child. 
He asked no explanations; he sought to know 
nothing of the past. He was content to believe 
that she had been foolish and mistaken ; and that 
the mistake and folly of her life would be buried 
in the grave of the murdered trainer. 

The lodge-keeper at Felden Woods' exclaimed 
as he opened the gates to his master's daughter. 
He was an old man, and he had opened the same 
gates more than twenty years before, when the 
banker's dark-eyed bride had first entered her 
husband's mansion. 



Aidiifaftld Fbjd wdeomed lusdiildrailimtily. 
Bow tomid he erer be oU i tt w iae tiiaa mntlerdbij 
kfi»f in the pKaesoce of Iw dbdmg; hoverer 
efian die mig^t eoniey nth vintefcr etteatiadty 
dbe mii^ time her TisitB ? 

MiSL XfiDkh kd h» &ther into hk stodf. 

*I mikI sjpemk to joa tiooe, fmp&^" Ae sui;' 
''hut Jbh&kuQfwsa&IhftTe totty. These aie no 
tmiii between ib bot. Ibae nerer will be 



» 



"^ AnoKa bed m peinM rtoiy to ten her fithfir, fix- 
■be bed tD qobSbk to bimtbel she had decexved 
but itfOBL the occasiaa of ber retmn to Fddesi 
Woods after ber putii^ with James CcnyezsL 

^ItoldTonasttxy, &dia;'' shesud, ^wfaail 
told Toa dial mj bidhtmii was dead. But 
fioaTem knowsy I bdiered tihai I ^loiild be isr- 
gjmmtiieaiii (rf'tbat £dkehood, fiar I diousbt tbot 
h woold ^pere toil giief aid tiaiifale cf mind; 
ami smdr anrdiiiig wooUl bsfe been jostifiaUe^ 
Oat could beTe dnfte thaL I sufpaee good nerer 
owt of efil, fix- I bftre been bittedhr 
tat my am. I reeeired a newspaper 
wtfim a bw ^Mmtjig <^ jbj letnzB^ ia whidt tibere 
was a paragix^ descrilHng &» deazh of James^ 




ON THE WATCH. 121 

Conyers. The paragraph was not correct, for the 
man had escaped with his life; and when I 
married John MeUish, my first husband was alive.'' 

Archibald Floyd uttered a cry of despair, and 
half rose from his easy-chair ; but Aurora knelt 
upon the ground by his side, with her arms about 
' him, soothing and comforting him. 

" It is all over now, dear father," she said ; "^^it 
is all over. The 'man is dead. I will tell you 
how he died by-and-by. It is all over. John 
knows all; and I am to marry him again. Talbot 
Bulstrode says that it is necessary, as , our 
marriage was not legaL My own dear father, 
there is to be no more secrecy, no more unhap- 
piness, — only love, and peace, and union for all 
of us." 

She told the old man the story of the trainer's 
death, dwelling very little upon the particularEf, 
and telling nothing of her own doings that night, 
except that she had been in the wood at ike 
time of the murder, and that she had heard the 
pistol fired. 

It was Hot a pleasant story, this story of murder 
and violence and treachery within the boundary 
of his daughter's home. Even amid Aurora's 



122 AUBORA. FLOTD. 

assnrances that all sorrow was past^ that doubt 
and uncertainty were to vanisii away before 
security and peace, Archibald Floyd could not 
control this feeling. He was resfless and uneasy 
in spite of himsell He took John Mellish out 
upon the terrace in the afternoon sunshine, while 
Aurora lay asleep upon one of the sofas in the 
long drawing-room, and talked to him of the 
trainer's death as ihey walked up and down. 

There was nothing to be elicited firom the young 
squire that threw any light upon the catastrophe, 
and Archibald Floyd tried in vain to find any 
ffisne out of the darkness of the mystery. 

^^ Can you imagine any one having any motive 
for getting rid of this man?" the banker asked. 

John shrugged his shoulders. He had been 
asked tliis question so often before, and had been 
always obliged to gire the same reply. 

^No; he knew of no motive which any one 
about Mellish could be likely to have. 

*^ Had the man any money about him?" asked 
Mr. Floyd. 

^^ Goodness knows whether he had or not,** 
John answered carelessly; ^'but I should think it 
wasn't likely he had much. He had beoa out of 




ON THE WATCH. 123 

a dtaation, I believe, for some time before he 
came to me, and he had spent a good many 
mcmths in a Prossian hospitaL I don't suppose 
he was worth robbing." 

The banker remembered the two thousand 
pounds which he had given to his daughter. 
What had Aurora done with that money ? Had 
she known of the trainer's existence when she 
asked for it? and had she wanted it for him? 
She had not explained this in her hurried story of 
the murder, and how could he press her upon so 
painful a subject? Why should he not accept her 
own assurance that aU was over, and that nothing 
remained but peace? 

Archibald Floyd and his children spent a tran- 
quil day together ; not talking much, for Aurora 
was completely worn out by the fieitigue and ex- 
citement she had undergone. What had her life 
been but agitation and terror since the day upon 
which Mr. Jdm Pastern's letter had come to 
Mellish to tell her of the existence of her first 
husband ? She slept through the best part of the 
day, lyiog upon a so£G^ and with John Mellish 
sitting by her side keeping watch over her. She 
slept while the bells of Beckenham church sum- 



124 AUBOBA TLOTD. 

moiied the parishioiiers to aftemooa service^ and 
while her &ther w^it to aasist in those qniet de- 
Totions^ and to kned on his hasBOck in the old 
square pew, and pray for the peace of his bdoved 
child. Hearen knows how earnestly the old man 
prayed for his dan^ter's hi^piness, and how she 
filled his thoughts ; not distractii^ him from more 
sacred thoughts, bat Wending her image with 
hk woiehip in alternate prayer and thanksgiving ! 
ISiose who watched him as he sat, with the son- 
shine on his gray head, list^ung reyerentiaUy to 
the sermon, little knew how much trouble had 
been mingled with the great prosperity of his hfe. 
They pointed him out respectfully to strangers, 
as a man whose signature across a slq> of ps^r 
eoold make that oblong morsel o£ beaten rag into 
an incalculable sum of money ; a man who stood 
1^x)n a golden pinnacle with the Bothsehilds and 
Montefiores and Couttses; who could afford to 
pay the National Ddbt any morning that the 
whim seized him ; and who was yet a plain man, 
and simple as a duld, as anybody might [see, the 
admiring parishioners would add, as the banker 
came out of church gluATOg hands right and left, 
and nodding to the charity childien. 



ON THE WATCH. 125 

I'm afraid the children dropped lower curtsies 
in the pathway of Mr. Floyd than even before the 
Vicar of Beckenham ; for they had learned to as- 
sociate the image of the banker with buns and 
tea, with sixpences and oranges, gambols on the 
smooth lawn at Felden Woods, and joYial feasts 
in monster tents to the music of clashing brazen 
bands, and with even greater treats in the way 
of excursions to a Crystal Palace on a hiU, an 
enchanted fairyland of wonders, frt)m which it 
was delicious to return in the dewy evening, 
singing hymns of rejoicing that shook the vans in 
which they travelled. 

The banker had distributed happiness right and 
left ; but the money which might have paid the 
National Debt had been impotent to save the life 
of the dark-eyed woman he had loved so tenderly, 
or to spare him one pang of uneasiness about his 
idolized child. Had not that all-powerfal wealth 
been rather the primary cause of his daughter's 
trouble, since it had cast her, young, inex- 
perienced, and trusting, a prey into the merce- 
nary hands of a bad man, who would not have 
cared to persecute her but for the money that had 
made her such a golden prize for any adventurer 



126 AUBOBA FLOTD. 

/ "vrho might please to essay the hazard of winning 
iter? 

With the memory of these things always in 
iiis mind, it was scarcely strange that Archibald 
Floyd should bear the burden of his riches 
aneekly and fearfully, knowing that, whatever he 
might be in the Stock Exchange, he was in the 
sight of Heaven only a feeble old man, very as- 
sailable by suffering, very liable to sorrow, and 
liumbly dependent on the mercy of the Hand 
ihat is alone powerful to spare or to afflict, as 
seemeth good to Him who guides it. 

Aurora awoke out of her long sleep while her 
fitther was at church. She awoke to find her 
husband watching her ; the Sunday papers lying 
forgotten on his knee, and his honest eyes fixed 
on the face he loved. 

"My own dear John,*' she said, as she lifted 
her head from the piUows, supporting herseK 
^ipon her elbow, and stretching out one hand to 
Mr. Mellish, " my own dear boy, how happy we 
^are together now ! Will anything ever come to 
break our happiness again, my dear? Can 
Heaven be so cruel as to afflict us any more ?" 

The banker's daughter, in the sovereign vitality 



ON THE WATCH. 12T 

of her nature, had rebelled against sorrow as at 
strange and unnatural part of her life. She had 
demanded happiness almost as a right ; she had 
wondered at her a£9ictions, and been unable to 
understand why she should be thus afflicted. 
There are natures which accept suffering with 
patient meekness, and acknowledge the justice hy 
which they suffer; but Aurora had never done 
this. Her joyous soul had revolted against sorrow, 
and she arose now in the intense relief which she 
felt in her release from the bonds that had been 
so hateful to her, and challenged Providence with 
her claim to be happy for evermore. 

John Mellish thought very seriously upon this 
matter. He could not forget the night of the 
murder, — ^the night upon which he had sat alone 
in his wife's chamber pondering upon his un- 
worthiness. 

"Do you think we deserve to be happy^ 
Lolly?" he said presently. "Don't mistake me, 
my darling. I know that you're the best and 
brightest of living creatures, — ^tender-hearted, 
loving, generous, and true. But do you think 
we take life quite seriously enough, Lolly dear ? 
I'm sometimes afraid that we're too much like the 



{ 



128 AURORA FLOYD. 

careless children in the pretty childish allegory^ 
who played ahont amongst the flowers on the 
smooth grass in the beautifdl garden^ until it was 
too late to set out upon the long journey on Ihe 
dark road which would have led them to Paradise. 
"What shall we do, my darling, to deserve the 
blessings Grod has given us so freely ; the bless- 
ings of youth and strength, and love and wealth? 
What shall we do, dear? I don't want to turn 
MeUish into a Philanstery exactly, nor to give up 
my radng-stud, if I can help it^" John said re- 
flectively ; " but I want to do something, Lolly, 
to prove that I am grateM to Providence. Shall 

we build a lot of schools, or a church, or alms- 
houses, or something of that sort? Lofthouse 
would like me to put up a painted window in 
Mellish church, and a new pulpit with a patent 
sounding-board; but I can't see that painted 
windows and sounding-boards do much good in a 
general way. I want to do something, Aurora, to 
prove my gratitude to the Providence that has 
given me the loveliest and best of women for my 
trae-hearted wife," 

The banker's daughter smiled almoin moum- 
folly upon her devoted husband. 



ON THE WATCH. 129 

^ " Have I been such a blessmg to you, John,** 
she said, **ihat you should be grateful for me? 
Have I not brought you far more sorrow than 
happine^, my poor dear T 

^'No," shouted Mr. Mellish emphatically. "The 
sorrow you have brought me has been nothing to 
the joy I have felt in your love. My own dearest 
girl, to be sitting here by your side to-day, and to 
hear 'you tell me that you love me, is enough 
happiness to set against all the trouble of mind 
that I have endured since the man that is dead 
came to Mellish." 

I hope my poor John Mellish will be forgiven 
if he talked a great deal of nonsense to the wife 
he loved. He had been her lover from the first 
moment in which be had seen her, darkly beauti- 
fol, upon the gusty Brighton Parade ; and he was 
her lover still. No shadow of contempt had ever 
grown out of his familiarity with her. And 
indeed I am disposed to take objectipn to that old 
proverb ; or at least to believe that' contempt lis 
only engendered of fieuniliarity with things which 
are in themselves base and spurious. The priest, 
who is familiar with the altar, learns no contempt 
tor its sacred images ; but it is rather the ignorant 



lEgiim Bmi^ and fiisr wujEAig» IfiiS' fJuHBmaf GaiMsat 

srfts (sfimdi afcgr » lEfe qff jrtfenir lUbBair;. a» &s> 






JSsBf {ganflfiHSi^ mi ^^ftm&i & Biifiifiwifi KoiiBB&ifii 

tft*^ ftfiir*.yrhif¥iM> wfti^fTg- fie-ffis^ i&ncflsii tik3& am nm- 

— gpor^ TipiiL Bini^imtff &e^ (Biii&^^ t&s-wd^ 

Ite AEDjEis^ of a. WSS& s &Diis7iniHHiL 

%mftift«Bt Mgyt (ggiift Budk fimni afinnzfi^sufi 
Saimil &^tw(F itfliBBrmi j^ijitang aD&'&ijr aii&mi (met 










ON THE WATCH. 131 

brought round to the terrace-steps, and Aurora 
kissed her &ther as she wished him good night. 

" You will come up to town, and be present at 
the marriage, sir, I know," John whispered, as he 
took his &ther-in-law's hand. " Talbot Bulstrode 
will arrange all about it. It is to take place at 
some out-of-the-way little church in the City. 
Nobody will be any the wiser, and Aurora and I 
will go back to MeUish as quietly as possible. 
There's only Lofthouse and Hayward know the 
secret of the certificate, and they ** 

John Mellish stopped suddenly. He remem- 
bered Mrs. Powell's parting sting. She knew the 
secret. But how could she have come by that 
knowledge ? It was impossible that either Loft- 
house or Hayward could have told her. They 
were both honourable men, and they had pledged 
themselves to be silent. 

Archibald Floyd did not observe his son-in-law's 
embarrassmeaott ; and the phaeton drove away, 
leaving the old man standing on the terrace-steps 
looking after his daughter. 

"I must shut up this place," he thought, "and 
go to Mellish to finish my days. I cannot endure 
these separations; I cannot bear this suspense, 

VOL. nr. L 



132 AnUOBA VWTJk 

ft is A pilifiil flhsniy my keepmg lioase, and 
in an dm diearj gnoideiir, mdnftiiptiie|daoe, 
and mk mj dai^jliter to give me a qpaet o(»ner in 
her Y oAahiro home^ and a g»ve m the pari^ 



The lodge^oeeper tmned out o( las omnfiirtable 
GoQiie haKtatinn to open the danting iwo. gates 
Sx Ute pliaetoii; hot John drew i^ his horaes 
hekme ibey dashed into the load, for he saw that 
the man wanted to i^eak to him. 
"^ What is it, Fotbesr he adoed.' 
^Oby it's nothii^ particnlar, sir,* tiie man said, 
*and perhaps I oi^^itn't to trouble yon aboot 
it; bat did yon eiqiect any cme down to-^y, 
mrr 

^Ibqiect any onehse? — nofezebdmed John, 
"There's been a person inqoirai', fiir^this after- 
noGD, — two persons, I may say, in a diay-cart, bot 
one of 'em asked particolar if yon was here, sir, 
and if lbs. Mdliah was heie ; and when I said 
yei^ yon was, the gent says it wasn't wartb 
tfooUin' yon abont — the bnsineas as he'd ccfme 
Mfoik — and as he'd call another time. And he 
aiinl me what time yon'd be fikdy to be kaTin* 
Urn Woods; and I said I made no donbt yon'd 




ON THE WATCH. 133 

stay to dinner up at the house. So he says^ * All 
rights' and drives off." 

" He left no message, then ?* 

** No, sir. He said nothin' more than what I've 
told yon." 

*' Then his business could haye been of no great 
importance, Forbes," answered John, laughing. 
" So we needn't worry our heads about him. Grood- 
night." 

Mr. Mellish dropped a fire-shilling piece into 
the lodge-keeper's hand, gave Talbot's horses thehr 
heads, and the phaeton rolled off London-wards 
over the crisp grayel of the well-kept Beckenham 
roads. 

^^Who could the man hare been?" Aurora 
asked, as they left the gates. 

^'Goodness knows> my dear," John answered 
carelessly. ^^ Somebody on racing business^ per^ 
haps." 

Bacing business seems to be in itself such a 
mysterious business that it is no strange thing for 
mysterious people to be always tumiqg up in 
relation to it. Aurora, therefore, was content to 
accept this explanation; but not without some 
degree of wonderment. 

L 2 



134 AURORA FLOYD. 

*^ I can't understand the man coming to Felden 
after you, John," she said. " How could he know 
that you were to be there to-day ?' 

" Ah, how indeed, Lolly !" returned Mr. MeUish, 
^He chanced it, I suppose. A sharp customer, 
■no doubt ; wants to sell a horse, I dare say, and 
heard I didn't mind giving a good price for a good 
thing." 

Mr. Mellish might have gone even further than 
this, for there were many horsey gentlemen in his 
neighbourhood, past masters in the art they prac- 
tised, who were wont to say that the young squire, 
judiciously manipulated, might be induced to give 
a remarkably good price for a very bad thing ; 
and there were many broken-down, slim-legged 
horses in the Mellish stables that bore witness to 
the same fact. Those needy chevaliers cPesprit who 
think that Burke's landed gentry were created by 
Providence and endowed with the goods of this 
world for their especial benefit, just as pigeons are 
made plump and nice-eating for the delectation of 
hawks, drove a wholesale trade upon the young 
man's frank simplicity and hearty belief in his 
fellow-creatures. I think it is Eliza Cook who 
says, " It is better to trust and be deceived, than 



ON THE WATCH* 135 

own the mean, poor spirit that betrays ;" and if 
there is any happiness in being "done," poor John 
enjoyed that fleeting delight pretty frequently. 

There was a turn in the road between Becken- 
ham and Norwood; and as the phaeton swept 
round, a chaise or dog-cart, a shabby vehicle 
enough, with a rakish-looking horse, drove close 
up, and the man who was driving asked the squire 
to put him in the nearest way to London. The 
vehicle had been behind them all the way from 
Felden, but had kept at a very respectful distance 
until now. 

"Do you want to get to the City or the West 
End ?" John asked. 

« The West End." 

" Then you can't do better than follow us," an- 
swered Mr. Mellish; "the road's clean enough, 
and your horse seems a good one to go. You can 
keep us in sight, I suppose ?* 

" Yes, sir, and thank ye." 

" AU right, then." 

Talbot Bulstrode's thorough-breds dashed off, 
but the rakish-looking horse kept his ground 
behind them. He had something of the insolent, 
off-hand assurance of a butcher's horse, accustomed 



136 AURORA FLOTD. 

to whirl a bare-lieaded bine-coated master through 
the sharp morning air. 

" I was rights Lolly," Mr. Mellish said, as he 
left the dog-cart behind. 

"How do you mean, dear ?" asked Aurora. 

** The man who spoke to us just now is the man 
who has been inquiring for me at Felden. He's a 
Yorkshireman." 

*' A Yorkshireman !" 

** Yes ; didn't you hear the north-country twang ?' 

No: she had not listened to the man, nor 
heeded him. How should she think of anything 
but her new-bom happiness — ^the new-bom confi- 
dence between herself and the husband she loved ? 

Do not think her hard-hearted or crael if she 
forgot that it was the death of a fellow-creature, a 
sinful man stricken down in the prime of youth 
and health, that had given her this welcome re- 
lease. She had sufiered so much, that the release 
could not be otherwise than welcome, let it come 
how it might. 

Her nature, jfrank and open as the day, had 
been dwarfed and crippled by the secret that had 
blighted her life. Can it be wondered, then, that 
she rejoiced now that all need of secrecy was 



ON THB WATCH. 137 

oyer, and this generous spirit might expand aa it 
pleased? 

It was past ten when the phaeton turned into 
Halfmoon Street. The mein in the dogK^trt had 
followed John's directions to the letter ; for it was 
only in Piccadilly that Mr. MeUish had lost si^t 
of them amongst other vehicles travelling back- 
wards and forwards on the lamp-lit thoroughfare. 

Talbot and Lucy received their visitors in one 
of the pretty little drawing-rooms. The young 
husband and wife had spent a quiet day together; 
going to church in the morning and afternoon, 
dining alone, and sitting in the twilight, talking 
happily and confidentially. Mr. Bulstrode was no 
Sabbath-breaker ; and John Mellish had reason to 
consider himself a peculiarly privil^ed person, in- 
asmuch as the thorough-breds had been permitted 
to leave their stables lor his service ; to say no- 
thing of the groom, who had been absent firom his 
hard seat in the servants' pew at a feushionable 
chapel, in order that he might accompany John 
and Aurora to Felden. 

The little party sat up rather late, Aurora and 
Lucy talking affectionately together, side by side, 
upon a sofa in the shadow of the room, while the 



_ 



188 AUSOKA FLOTD. 

two men loimged in the optsi window. John t<M 
his host the history (^ the day, and in doing so 
caaoally menticMied the man idw had asked him 
the way to Lcmdou 

Stzai^ to Bay, Talbot Boktrode seemed €^>e- 
dally interested in this part ol the stoiy. He 
aAed sereral qnestioos aboot the men. He asked 
wjiat they weie like ; what was said by etths- 
<]f llwm ; «m< imulff many other inqotrie^ whicb 
aeemed eqnally tmiaL 

" Then they fiJtoved joa into town, JtJm ?" he 
i»irl finaDy. 

*' Yes ; I txily lost sight of them in ISecadfllT, 
fire minides bdbre I tnmed the comer of the street.'* 

" Do yoa think they had any inotiTe in fiJIow- 
H^ yoo?" asked Talbot. 

" W^ I &IICT SO ; they're wt (be lo(^-oat toe 
informatioM, I expect, llie man who efAe to me 
looted araTw-thing like a tooL Tre heard that 
Lonl Stemfivd's latho' anxioiE about my West- 
Anstraliaii o^ the Fok BokJKi: Poh^s his 
pecfile bsfc set these moi to wvack to find oat if 
Ttt going to nm him in die Legez." 

lUbot Bdrtrode sailed Utteriy. ahnostmoom- 
M^,atAeisB^ of hon»4edL It was painfol 



ON THE WATCH. 139 

to see this light-hearted young squire looting in 
such ignorant hopefulness towards an horizon upon 
which graver and more thoughtful men could see 
a dreadful shadow lowering. Mr. Bulstrode was 
standing close to the balcony ; he stepped out 
amongst the china boxes of mignonette, and 
looked down into the quiet street. A man was 
leaning against a lamp-post, some few paces from 
Talbot's house, smoking a cigar, and with his face 
turned towards the balcony. He finished his cigar 
deliberately, threw the end into the road, and 
walked away while Talbot kept watch ; but Mr. 
Bulstrode did not leave his post of observation, and 
about a quarter of an hour afterwards he saw the 
same man lounging slowly along the pavement 
upon the other side of the street. John, who sat 
within the shadow of the window-curtains, lolling 
against them, and creasing their delicate folds 
with the heavy pressure of his broad back, was 
utterly imconscious of all this. 

Early the next morning Mr. Bulstrode and Mr. 
Mellish took a Hansom cab, and rattled down to 
Doctors' Commons, where, for tlie second time in 
his life, John gave himself up to be fought for by 
white-aproned ecclesiastical touts, and eventually 



140 ATJBORA FLOYD. 

obtaiaed the Archbishop of Canterbury's graciourf 
sanction of his marriage with Aurora^ widow of 
James Conyers, only daughter of Archibald Floyd, 
banker. From Doctors' Commons the two gentle- 
men drove to a certain quiets out-of-the-way 
church within thfe sound of Bow bells, but so com- 
pletely hidden amongst piles of warehouses, top- 
heavy chimneys, sloping roofe, and other eccen- 
tricities of masonry, that any unhappy bridegroom, 
who had appointed to be married there, was likely 
enough to spend the whole of the wedding-day in 
fdtile endeavours to find the church-door. Here 
John discovered a mouldy clerk, who was fetched 
from some habitation in the neighbourhood with 
considerable diflSculty, by a boy, who volunteered 
to accomplish anything under heaven for a certain 
copper consideration ; and to this clerk Mr. Mel- 
lish gave notice of a marriage which was to take 
place upon the following day, by special licence. 

" I'll take my second marriage-certificate back 
with me," John said, as he left the church ; " and 
then I should like to see who'll dare to look me 
in the face, and tell me that my darling is not my 
own lawfcdly-wedded wife." 

He was thinking of Mrs. Powell as he said this. 



ON THE WATCH. 141 

He was thinldng of the pale, spitefnl eyes that had 
looked at him, and of the woman's tongae tiiat 
had ^bbed him with all a little natnre's great 
capacity for hate. He would be able to defy her 
now ; he would be able to defy every creature in 
the world who <iared to breathe a syllable against 
his beloved wife. 

Early the next morning the marriage took 
place. Archibald Floyd, Talbot Bulstrode, and 
Lncy were the only witnesses ; that is to say, the 
only witnesses with the exception of the clerk and 
the pew-opener, and a couple of men who lounged 
into the church when the ceremony was half over, 
and slouched ubout one of the side aisles, looking 
at the monuments, and talking to eadhi other in 
whispers, until the parson took off his surplice, 
and John came out of the vestry with his wife 
upon his arm. 

Mr. and Mrs. MelKsh did not return to Half- 
moon Street; they drove straight to the Great 
Northern Station, whence they started by the 
afternoon express for Doncaster. John was anxioud 
to return; for remember that he had left his 
household under very peculiar circumstances, and 
strange reports might have arisen in his absence. 



142 AURORA FLOYD. 

The young squire would perhaps have scarcely 
thought of this, had not the idea been suggested 
to him by Talbot Bulstrode, who particularly 
ui^ed upon him the expediency of returning im- 
mediately. 

" Go back, John," said Mr. Bulstrode, " without 
an hour's unnecessary delay. If by any chance 
there should be some further disturbance about 
this murder, it will be much better for you, and 
Aurora too, to be on the spot. I will come down 
to Mellish myself in a day or two, and will bring 
Lucy with me, if you will allow me." 

" Allow you, my dear Talbot 1" 

" I mU come, then. Good-bye, and God bless 
you ! Take care of your wife." 




143 



CHAPTEE VnL 

CAPTAIN PBODDER GOES BACK TO DONCASTER. 

Mb. Samuel Proddee, returning to London 
after having played his insignificant part in the 
tragedy at Mellish Park, found that city singu- 
larly duU and gloomy. He put up at some dismal 
boarding-house, situated amid a mazy labyrinth of 
brick and mortar between the Tower and Wapping, 
and having relations with another boarding-house 
in Liverpool. He took up his abode at this place, 
in which he was known and respected. He drank 
rum-and-water, and played cribbage with other 
seamen, made af(;er the same pattern as himself. 
He even went to an East-End theatre upon the 
Saturday night after the murder, and sat out the 
representation of a nautical drama, which he would 
have been glad to have believed in, had it not 
promulgated such wild theories in the science of 
navigation, and exhibited such extraordinary ex- 



144 AURORA FLOYD. 

periments in the manoeuvrmg of the man-of-wary 
upon which the action of the play took place, as to 
cause the captain's hair to stand on end in the in- 
tensity of his wonder. The things people did upon 
that ship curdled Samuel Prodder's blood, as he sat 
in the lonely grandeur of the eighteenpenny boxes. 
It was quite a common thing for them to walk 
xmhesitatingly throi^ the bulwarks and disappear 
in what ought to have been the sea. The extent 
of browbeating and humiliation borne by the cap- 
tain of that noble vessel; the amount of authority 
exercised by a sailor with loose legs; the agonies 
of seandcknessy represented by a comic country- 
man, who had no particular business on board the 
gallant bark; the proportion of hornpipe-dancing 
and nautical ballad-singiQg gone through, as com- 
pared to the work that was done, — all combined 
to impress poor Samuel with such a novel view of 
her Majesty's naval service, that he was very glad 
when the captain who had been browbeaten sud- 
denly repented of all hia sins, — ^not without a 
sharp reminder from the prompter, who informed 
the dramatis personcB ia a confidential voice that it 
was parst twelve, and they'd better cut it short, — 
joined the hands of the contumacious sailor and a 



CAPTAIN PRODDER GOES BACK TO DONCASTER. 145 

young lady in white muslin, and begged them to 
be 'appy. 

It was in vain that the captain sought distrac- 
tion from the one idea upon which he had perpe- 
tually brooded since the night of his visit toMellish 
Park. He would be wanted in Yorkshire to tell 
what he knew of the dark history of that fatal 
night. He would be called upon to declare eJt 
what hour he had entered the wood, whom he had 
met there, what he had seen and heard theie^ 
They would extort &om him that which he would 
have died rather than telL They would cross- 
examine, and bewilder, and torment him, until he 
told them everything, — untQ he repeated, syllable 
by syllable, the passionate words that had been 
said, — until he told them how, within a quarter of 
an hour of the firing of the pistol, he had been 
the witness of a desperate scene between his niece 
and the murdered man, — ^a scene in which concen- 
trated hate, vengeful fiiry, illimitable disdain and 
detestation had been expressed by her — ^by her 
alone: — ^the man had been calm and moderate 
enough. It was she who had been angry ; it was 
she who had given loud utterance to her hate. 

Now, by reaacm of one of those_strange inconsis- 



146 ACBORA FLOYD. 

tencies ccmuiKHi to weak hmnan natare, &^ 
thoQgli possessed n%fat and day by aUind toror of 
bang saddmly pounced npom by the minions of the 
law, and oompdled to betray his nieoe^s secret, 
ooold not rest in his safe retreat amid the laby- 
nnths of Wapping, but mnst needs pine to retain 
to the scene of the murder. He wanted to know 
the result of the inqnest The Simday pi^ierB gave 
Jt Teiy meagre jKXXxmt^ only hinting daddy at 
suspected parties. He wanted to aseatain f(ar 
himfyif what had happened at the inqnest, and 
whether his absence had given nse to saqaciGn. 
He wanted to see his niece again,— to see her in 
lube daylight, imdistxiibed by passion. He wanted 
to see this beaxcdftd tigress in her calmer moods, 
if she ever had any calmer moods. HeaTen knows 
iSbe simple merchant-captain was well-nigh dis- 
tracted as he thonght of his sister Eliza's child, 
and the awfol drcomstances of his first and only 
meeting with her. 

Was she — that which he feared people might be 

led to think her, if they heard the story of that 

soene in the wood ? No, no, no! 

She was his sister's child, — the child of that merry, 

}ittile ffdj who had worn a pinafore and 




CAPTAIN PRODDER GOES BACK TO DONCASTER. 147 

played hop-scotch. He remembered his sister 
flying into a rage with one Tommy Barnes for un- 
fair practices in that very game, and upbraiding 
him almost as passionately as Aurora had upbraided 
the dead man. But if Tommy Barnes had been 
found strangled by a skipping-rope or shot dead 
from a pea-shooter in the next street a quarter of 
an hour afterwards, would Eliza's brother have 
thought that she must needs be guilty of the boy's 
murder ? The captain had gone so far as to reason 
thus, in his trouble of mind. His sister Eliza's 
child would be likely to be passionate and im- 
petuous ; but his sister Eliza's child woul J be a 
generous, warm-hearted creature, incapable of any 
cruelty in either thought or deed. He remembered 
his sister Eliza boxiug his ears on the occasion of 
his gouging out the eyes of her wax-doU ; but he 
remembered the same dark-eyed child sobbing 
piteously at the spectacle of a lamb that a heartless 
butcher was dragging to the slaughter-house. 

But the more seriously Captain Prodder re- 
volved this question in his mind, the more 
decidedly his inclination pointed to Doncaster; 
and early upon that very morning on which the 
quiet marriage had taken place in the obscure 

VOL. ni, jc 



148 AURORA FLOTD. 

City churcli, he repaired to a magnificent Israel- 
itish temple of fashion in the Minories, and there 
ordered a suit of such clothes as were most 
affected by elegant landsmen. The Israelitish 
salesman recommended something light and 
lively in the fancy-check line ; and Mr. Prodder, 
Bubmitting to that authority as beyond all question, 
invested himself in a suit which he had contem- 
plated solenmly athwart a vast expanse of plate- 
glass, before entering the temple of the Graces. 
It was " Our aristocratic tourist," at seventy-seven 
shillings and sixpence, and was made of a fleecy 
and rather powdery-looking cloth ; in which the 
hues of baked and unbaked bricks predominated 
over a more deUcate hearthstone tint,— which 
latter the shopman declared to be a colour that 
West-End tailors had vainly striven to emulate. 

The captain, dressed in "Our aristocratic 
tourist," which suit was of the ultra cut-away and 
peg-toppy order, and with his sleeves and trousers 
inflated by any chance summer's breeze, had 
perhaps more of the appearance of a tombola than 
is quite in accordance with a strictly artistic 
view of the human figure. In his desire to make 
himself utterly irrecognizab»le as the seafaring man 



CAPTAIN PRODDER GOES BACK TO DONCASTER. 149 

who had carried the tidings of the murder to 
Mellish Park, the captain had tortured himself 
by substituting a tight circular collar and a wisp 
of purple ribbon for the honest half-yard of 
snowy linen which it had been his habit to wear 
turned over the loose collar of his blue coat. He 
suffered acute agonies from this modem device, 
but he bore them bravely ; and he went straight 
from the tailor's to the Great Northern Railway 
Station^ where he took his ticket for Doncaster. 
He meant to visit that town as an aristocratic 
tourist; he would keep himself aloof from the 
neighbourhood of Mellish Park, but h^ would be 
sure to hear the result of the inquest, and he 
would be able to ascertain for himself whether any 
trouble had come upon his sister's child. 

The sea-captain did not travel by that expiiess 
which carried Mr. and Mrs. Mellish to Doncaster, 
but by an earlier and a slower train, which 
lumbered quietly along the road, conveying in- 
ferior persons, to whom time was not measured by 
a golden standard, and who smoked, and slept, and 
ate, and drank resignedly enough, through the 
eight or nine hours' journey. 

It was dusk when Samuel Prodder reached the 

M 2 



150 AURORA FLOYD. 

quiet racing-town from which he had fled away in 
the dead of the night so short a time before. He 
left the station, and made his way to the market- 
place, and from the market-place he struck into a 
narrow lane that led hini to an obscure street upon 
the outskirts of the town. He had a great terror 
of being led by some unhappy accident into the 
neighbourhood of the Keindeer, lest he should 
be recognized by some hanger-on of that hotel. 

Half-way between the beginning of the stwtg- 
gling street and the point at which it dwindled and 
shrank away into a country lane, the captain 
found a Utile public-house called the Crooked 
Babbit, — such an obscure and out-of-the-way place 
of entertainment that poor Samuel thought him- 
self safe in seeking for rest and refreshment 
within its dingy walls. There was a framed-and- 
glazed legend of " good beds " hanging behind an 
opaque window-pane, — ^beds for which the land- 
lord of the Crooked Babbit was in the habit of 
asking and receiving almost fabulous prices during 
the great Leger week. But there seemed little 
enough doing at the humble tavern just now, and 
Captain Prodder walked boldly in, ordered a steak 
= and a pint of ale, with a glass of rum-and-water, 



CAPTAIN PRODDER GOES BACK TO DONCASTER. 151 

hot, to follow, at the bar, and engaged one of the 
good beds for his accommodation. The landlord, 
who was a fat man, lomiged with his back against 
the bar reading the sporting news in the 'Moq- 
chester Guardian ;' and it was the landlady who 
took Mr. Prodder's orders and showed him the way 
into an awkwardly-shaped parlour, which was much 
below the rest of the house, and into which the 
uninitiated visitor was apt to precipitate himself 
head foremost, as into a weU or pit. There where 
several small mahogany tables in this room, all 
adorned with sticky arabesques, formed by the wet 
impressions of the bottom rims of pewter pots; 
there were so many spittoons that it was almost 
impossible to walk from, one end of the room to 
the other without taking unintentional foot-baths 
of sawdust ; there was an old bagatelle-table, the 
cloth of which had changed from green to dingy 
yeUow, and was frayed and tattered like a poor 
man's coat ; and there was a low window, the sill 
of which was almost on a level with the pavement 
of the street 

The merchant-captain threw off his hat, loosened 
the slip of ribbon and the torturing circular collar 
supplied him by the Israelitish outfitter, and cast 



152 AURORA FLOYD. 

liimsclf into a shinmg mahogany arm-cliair close 
to tills window. The lower panes were shrouded 
by a crimson curtain, and he lifted this Tery 
cautiously and peered for a few moments into the 
street It was lonely enough and quiet enough 
in the dusky summer's evening. Here and there 
lights twinkled in a shop window, and upon one 
threshold a man stood talking to his neighbour. 
With one thought always paramount iii his mind, 
it is scarcely strange that Samuel Prodder should 
fancy these people must necessarily be talking of 
the murder. 

The landlady brought the captain the steak he 
had ordered, and the tired traveller seated himself 
at one of the tables and discussed his simple meaL 
He had eaten nothing since seven o'clock that 
morning, and he made very short work of the three- 
quarters of a pound of meat that had been cooked 
for him. He finished his beer, drank his rum-and- 
water, smoked a pipe, and then, as he had the 
room still to himself, he made an impromptu couch 
of Windsor chairs arranged in a row, and, in his 
own parlance, tumed-in upon this rough hammock 
to take a brief stretch. 

He might have set his mind at rest, perhaps^ 



CAPTAESr PRODDER GOES BACK TO DONCASTER. 153 

before this, had he chosen. He could have ques- 
tioned the landlady about the murder at MeDish 
Park ; she was likely to know as much as any 
one else he migh<> meet at the Crooked Babbit. 
But he had refrained from doing this because he 
did not wish to draw attention to himself in any 
way, as a person in the smallest degree interested 
in the murder. How did he know what inquiries 
had possibly been made for the missing witness ? 
There was perhaps some enormous reward oflFered 
for his apprehension, and a word or a look might 
betray him to the greedy eyes of those upon the 
watch to obtain it. 

Bemember that this broad-shouldered seafaring 
man was as ignorant as a child of all things beyond 
the deck of his own vessel, and the watery high- 
roads he had been wont to navigate. Life along 
shore was a solemn mystery to him, — ^the law of 
the British dominions a complication of inscrutable 
enigmas, only to be spoken of and thought of in a 
spirit of reverence and wonder. If anybody had 
told him that he was likely to be seized upon as an 
accessory before the fact, and hung out of hand for 
his passive part in the MeUish Park catastrophe, he 
would have believed them iiiiplicitly. How did he 



154 . AURORA FLOYD. 

know how many Acts of Parliament his conduct in 
leaving Doncaster without giving his evidence 
might come under? It might be high treason, 
lese-majesty, — ^anything in the world that is unpro- 
nounceable and awful, — ^for aught this simple 
sailor knew to the contrary. But in all this it was 
not his own safety that Captain Prodder thought 
o£ That was of very little moment to this light- 
hearted, easy-going sailor. He had perilled his 
life too often on the high seas to set any exagge- 
rated value upon it ashore. If they chose to hang 
an innocent man, they must do their worst; it 
would be their mistake, not his; and he had a 
simple seaman-like faith, rather vague, perhaps, and 
not very reduceable to anything like thirty-nine 
articles, which told him there were sweet little 
cherubs sitting up aloft who would take good care 
that any such sublunary mistake should be recti- 
fied in a certain supernal log-book, upon whose 
pages Samuel Prodder hoped to find himself set 
down as an honest and active sailor, always humbly 
obedient to the signals of his Commander. 

It was for his niece's sake, then, that the sailor 
dreaded any discovery of his whereabouts ; and it 
was for her sake that he resolved upon exercising 



CAPTAIN PRODDEB GOES BACK TO DONCASTER. 155 

• 

the greatest degree of caution of which his simple 
nature was capable. 

"I won't ask a single question," he thought; 
" there's sure to be a pack of lubbers dropping in 
here, by-and-by, and I shall hear 'em talking about 
the business as likely as not. These country folks 
would have nothing to talk about if they didn't 
overhaul the ship's books of their betters." 

The captain slept soundly for upwards of an 
hour, and wa& awakened at the end of that time 
by the sound of voices in the room, and the fiimes 
of tobacco. The gas was flaring high in the low- 
roofed parlour when he opened his eyes, and at 
first he could scarcely distinguish the occupants of 
the room for the blinding glare of light. 

" I won't get up," he thought ; " I'U sham asleep 
for a bit, and see whether they happen to talk 
about the business." 

There were only three men in the room. One 
of them was the landlord, whom Samuel Prodder 
had seen reading in, the bar ; and the other two 
were shabby-looking men, with by no means too 
respectable a stamp either upon their persons or 
their manners. One of them wore a velveteen cut- 
away coat with big brass buttons, knee-breeches. 



156 AUBORA FLOYD. 

blue stockings, and faighloMrs. The other was a 
pale-£Eiced man, with mutton-chop whiskers, and 
dressed in a shabby-genteel costume, that gave in- 
dication of general yagabondage rather than of 
any particular occupation. 

They were talking of horses when Captain Prod- 
der awoke, and the sailor lay for some time listen- 
ing to a jargon that was utterly unintelligible to 
him. The men talked of Lord Zetland's lot, of 
Lord Glasgow's lot, and the Leger and the Cup, 
and made offers to bet with each other, and quar- 
relled about the terms, and never came to an agree- 
ment, in a manner that was utterly bewildering to 
poor Samuel ; but he waited patiently, still feign- 
ing to be asleep, and not in any way disturbed by 
the men, who did not condescend to take any 
notice of him. 

" They'll talk of the other business presently," 
he thought ; " they're safe to talk of it** 

Mr. Prodder was right 

After discussing the conflicting merits of half 
the horses in the racing calendar, the three men 
abandoned the fascinating subject ; and the land- 
lord re-entering the room after having left it to 
fetch a fresh supply of beer for his guests, asked if 



CAPTAIN PRODDEB GOES BACK TO DONCASTER. 157 

either of them had heard if anything new had 
turned up about that business at Melliah Park. 

"There's a letter in to-day's * Guardian,'" he 
added, before receiving any reply to his question, 
**and a pretty strong one. It tries to fix the 
murder upon some one in the house, but it don't 
exactly name the party. It wouldn't be safe to do 
that yet awhile, I suppose." 

Upon the request of the two men, the landlord 
of the Crooked Babbit read the letter in the 
Manchester daily paper. It was a very clever 
' letter, and a spirited one, giving a synopsis of the 
proceedings at the inquest^ and commenting very 
severely upon the maimer in which that investiga- 
tion had been conducted. Mr. Prodder quailed 
until the Windsor chairs trembled beneath him as 
the landlord read one passage, in which it was re- 
marked that the stmnger who carried the news of 
the murder to the house of the victim's employer, 
the man who had heard the report of the pistol, 
and had been chiefly instrumental in the finding 
of the body, had not been forthcoming at the in* 
quest. 

"He had disappeared mysteriously and abruptly^ 
and no efforts were made to find him," wrote the 



158 AURORA FLOYD. ' 

correspondent of the * Guardian/ " What assur- 
ance can be given for the safety of any man's life 
when such a crime as the MeDish Park murder is 
investigated in this loose and indifferent manner ? 
The catastrophe occurred within the boundary of 
the Pai:k fence. Let it be discovered whether any 
person in the Mellish household had a motive for 
the destruction of James Conyors. The man was 
a stranger to the neighbourhood. He was not 
likely, therefore, to have made enemies outside the 
boundary of his employer's estate, but he may 
have had some secret foe within that limit. Who 
was he ? where did he come from ? what were his 
antecedents and associations? Let each one of 
these questions be fiilly sifted, let a cordon be 
drawn round the house, and every creature living 
in it be held under the surveillance of the law 
until patient investigation has done its work, and 
such evidence has been collected as must lead to 
the detection of the guilty person." 

To this effect was the letter which the landlord 
read in a loud and didetctic manner, that was very 
imposing, though not without a few stumbles 
over some hard words, and a good deal of slap- 
dash jumping at others. 



CAPTAIN PRODDER GOES BACK TO DONCASTER. 159 

Samuel Prodder could make very Kttle of the 
composition, except that it was perfectly clear he 
had been missed at the inquest, and his absence 
commented upon. The landlord and the shabby- 
genteel man talked long and discursively upon the 
matter ; the man in the velveteen coat, who was 
evidently a thorough-bred cockney and only newly 
arrived in Doncaster, required to be told the 
whole story before he was upon a footing with the 
other two. He was very quiet, and generally 
spoke between his teeth, rarely taking the un- 
necessary trouble of removing his short clay-pipe 
from his mouth, except when it required refilling. 
He listened to the story of the murder very 
intently, keeping one eye upon the speaker and 
the other on his pipe, and nodding approvingly 
now and then in the course of the narrative. 

He took his pipe from his mouth when the 
story was finished, and filled it from an india- 
rubber pouch, which had to be turned inside-out 
in some mysterious manner before the tobacco 
could be extricated from it. While he was pack- 
ing the loose fragments of shag or bird's-eye 
neatly into the bowl of the pipe with his stumpy 
little finger, he said, with supreme carelessness — 




160 AUBORA FLOTD. 

** I know'd Jim Conyers." 

"Did you now T exclaimed the landlord, open- 
ing his eyes very wide. 

" I know'd him," repeated the man, ^^ as inti- 
mate as I know'd my own mother ; and when I 
read of the murder in the newspaper last Sunday, 
you might have knocked me down with a feather. 
* Jim's got it at last^' I said ; for he was one (^ 
them coves that goes through the world cock-a- 
doodling over other people to sieh a extent, that 
when they do drop in for it, there's not many par- 
ticular sorry for 'em. He was one of your selfish 
chaps, this here ; and when a chap goes through 
this life makin' it his leadin' principle to care 
about nobody, he musto't be surprised if it ends by 
nobody carin' for him. Yes, I know'd Jim Conyers," 
added the man, slowly and thoughtfully, " and I 
know'd him under rather pecooliar circumstances." 

The landlord and the other man pricked up 
fheir ears at this point of the conversation. 

The trainer at Mellish Park had, as we know, 
risen to popularity from the hour in which he had 
Mien upon the dewy turf in the wood, shot 
through the heart. . 

**If there wasn't any particklar objections," the 



CAPTAIN PRODDER GOES BACK TO DONCASTER. 161 

landlord of the Crooked Babbit said, presently, 
"I should oncommonly like to hear anything 
you've got to tell about the poor chap. There's a 
deal of interest took about the matter in Doncas- 
ter, and my customers have scarcely talked of 
anything else since the inquest." 

The man in the velveteen coat rubbed his chin 
and smoked his pipe reflectively. He was evidently 
not a very communicative man; but it was also 
evident that he was rather gratified by the distinc- 
tion of his position in the little public-house parlour. 

This was no other than Mr. Matthew Harrison, 
the dog-fancier ; Aurora's pensioner, the man who 
had traded upon her secret, and made himseK the 

last link between her and the low-bom husband 

* 

she had abandoned. 

Samuel Prodder lifted himself from the Wind- 
sor chairs at this juncture. He was too much 
interested in the conversation to be able to simu- 
late sleep any longer. He got up, stretched his 
legs and arms, made elaborate show of having 
just awakened firom a profound and refreshing 
slumber, and asked the landlord of the Crooked 
Babbit to mix him another glass of that pme- 
apple-rum grogt 



162 AUBORA FLOTD. 

The captain lighted his pipe while his host 
departed upon this errand. The seaman glanoed 
rather inqnisitively at Mr. Harrison ; but he was 
fain to wait nntil the conversation took its own 
course, and offered him a safe opportunity of ask- 
ing a few questions. 

**The pecooliar circumstances under which I 
knoVd James Conyers," pursued the dog-fancier, 
after having taken his own-time and smoked out 
half a pipeful of tobacco, to the acute aggravation 
of his auditory, ** was a woman, — and a stunner 
she was, too ; one of your regular spitfires, that'll 
knock you into the middle of next week if you so 
much as asks her how she does in a manner she 
don't approve of. She was a woman, she was, 
and a handsome one, too; but she was more than 
a match for James, with all his brass. Why, I've 
seen her great black eyes flash fire upon him,'* 
said Mr. Harrison, looking dreamily before him, 
as if he could even at that moment see the flash- 
ing eyes of which he spoke ; ** I've seen her look 
at him, as if she'd wither him up from off the 
ground he trod upon, with that contempt she felt 
for him." 
Samuel Prodder grew strangely uneasy as he 




CAPTAIN PRODDER GOES BACK TO DONCASTER. 163 

listened to this man's talk of flashing black eyes 
and angry looks directed at James Conyers. Had 
he not seen his niece's shining orbs flame fire 
upon the dead man only a quarter of an hour, 
before he received his death-wound? Only so 
long — ^Heaven help that wretched girl !— only so 
long before the man for whom she had expressed 
unmitigated hate had fallen by the hand of an 
unknown murderer. - 

*'She must have been a tartar, this young 
woman of yours," the landlord observed to Mr. 
Harrison. 

" She was a tartar," answered the dog-fancier : 
" but she was the right sort, too, for all that ; and 
what's more, she was a kind friend to me. There's 
never a quarter-day goes by that I don't have 
cause to say so." 

He poured out a fresh glass of beer as he spoke, 
and tossed the liquor down his capacious throat 
with the muttered sentiment, "Here's towards 
her." 

Another man had entered the room while Mr. 
Frodder had sat smoking his pipe and drinking his 
rum-and-water, a hump-backed, white-feced man, 
who sneaked into the public-house parlour as if he 

VOL. III. N 



164 AUBORA FLOTD. 

had no right to be there, and seated himself noise- 
lessly at one of the tablesL 

Samuel Prodder remembered this man. He had 
seen him through the window in the lighted par- 
lour of the north lodge when the body of James 
Conyers had been carried into the cottage. It 
was not likely, however, that the man had seen 
the captain. 

"Why, if it isn't Steeve" ]^u-graves from the 
Park!" exclaimed the landlord, as he looked 
round and recognized the " Softy "; " he'll be able 
to tell plenty, I dare say. We've been talking of 
the murder, Steeve," he added, in a conciliatory 
manner. 

Mr. Hargraves rubbed his clumsy hands about 
his head, and looked furtively, yet searchingly, at 
each member of the little assembly. 

" Ay, sure," he said ; " folks don't seem to me to 
talk about owght else. It was bad enoogh oop at 
the Park ; but it seems worse in Doncaster." 

" Are you stayin' up town, Steeve ?' asked the 
landlord, who seemed to be upon pretty intimate 
terms with the late hanger-on of Mellish Park. 

" Yes, I'm stayin' oop town for a bit ; I've been 
out of place since the business oop there ; you 




CAPTAIN PRODDER G0E3 BACK TO DONCASTER. 165 

know how I was turned out of the house that had 
sheltered me ever since I was a boy, and you 
know who did it. Never mind that ; I'm out o ' 
place now, but you may draw me a mug of ale ; 
I've money enough for that." 

Samuel Prodder looked at the *^ Softy " with con- 
siderable interest. He had played a small part in 
the great catastrophe, yet it was scarcely likely 
that he should be able to throw any light upon 
the mystery. What was he but a poor half-witted 
hanger-on of the murdered man, who had lost all 
by his patron's untimely death ? 

The " Softy " drank his beer, and sat, silent, un- 
gainly, and disagreeable to look upon, amongst the 
other men. 

" There^s a reglar stir in the Manchester papers 
about this murder, Steeve," the landlord said, by 
way of opening a conversation ; " it don't seem to 
me as if the business was goin' to be let drop over- 
quietly. There'll be a second inquest, I reckon, 
or a examination, or a memorial to the Secretary 
of State, or summat o' that sort, before long." 

The " Softy's " fece, expressionless almost always, 
expressed nothing now but stolid indifference ; the 
stupid indifference of a haK-witted ignoramus, to 

N 2 



166 AURORA FLOYD. 

whose impenetrable intellect even the murder of 
his own master was a far-away and obscure event, 
not powerful enough to awaken any effort of at- 
tention. 

" Yes ; I'll lay there'll be a stir about it before 
long," the landlord continued. " The papers put 
it down very strong that the murder must have 
been done by some one in the house ; by some 
one as had more knowledge of the man, and more 
reason to be angry against him, than strangers 
could have. Now you, Hargraves, were living at 
the place ; you must have seen and heard things 
that other people haven't had the opportunity to 
hear. What do you think about it?" 

Mr. Hargraves scratched his head reflectively. 
. " The papers are cleverer nor me," he said at 
last ; " it wouldn't do for a poor fond chap like me 
to go agen such as them. I think what they 
think. I think it was some one about the pleace 
did it ; some one that had good reason to be spite- 
ful again him that's dead." 

An imperceptible shudder passed over the 
^ Softy's " frame as he alluded to the murdered 
man. It was strange with what gusto the other 
three men discussed the ghastly subject ; returning 



CAPTAIN PRODDER GOES BACK TO DONCASTER. 167 

to it persistently in spite of every interruption, and 
in a manner licking their lips over its gloomiest 
details. It was surely more strangb that they 
should do this, than that Stephen Hargraves 
should exhibit some reluctance to talk freely upon 
the dismal topic. 

" And who do you think had cause to be spiteful 
agen him, Steeve ?" asked the landlord. " Had 
him and Mr. Mellish fell out about the manage- 
ment of the stable ?" 

" Him and Mr, Mellish had never had an angry 
word pass between 'em, as I've heerd of," answered 
the " Softy." 

He laid such a singular emphasis upon the word 
Mr. that the three men looked at him wonderingly, 
and Captain Prodder took his pipe from his mouth 
and grasped the back of a neighbouring chair as 
firmly as if he had entertained serious thoughts of 
flinging that trifle of furniture at the "Softy's" 
head. 

" Who else could it have been, then, as had a 
spite against the man ?" asked some one. 

Samuel Prodder scarcely knew who it was who 
apoke, for his attention was concentrated upon 
Stephen BLargraves ; and he never once removed 



168 AURORA FLOYD. 

his gaze from the white face, and dull, blinking 
eyes. 

"Who wag it that went to meet him late at 
night in the north lodge ?' whispered the " Softy." 
" Who was it that couldn't find words that was 
bad enough for him, or looks that was angry 
enough for him ? Who was it that wrote him a 
letter, — I've got it, and I mean to keep it too, — 
askin' of him to be in the wood at such-and-such a 
time upon the very night of the murder ? Who 
was it" that met him there in the dark, — as others 
could tell as well as me ? Who was it that did this ?' 

No one answered. The men looked at each 
other and at the " Softy " with open mouths, but 
said nothing. Samuel Prodder grasped the top- 
most bar of the wooden chair still more tightly, 
and his broad bosom rose and fell beneath his 
tourist waistcoat like a raging sea ; but he sat in 
the shadow of the queerly-shaped room, and no 
one noticed him. 

"Who was it that ran away from her own 
home and hid herself, after the inquest T whis- 
pered the " Softy." " Who was it that was afraid 
to stop in her own house, but must run away to 
London without leaving word where she was gone 



CAPTAIK PRODDER GOES BACK TO DONCASTER. 169 

for anybody? Who was it that was seen upon 
the mornin' before the murder, meddlin' with her 
husband's guns and pistols, and was seen by more 
than me, as them that saw her will testify when 
the time comes ? Who was this ?' 

Again there was no answer. The raging sea 
laboured still more heavily under Captain Prod- 
der's waistcoat, an^ his grasp tightened, if it 
could tighten, on the rail of the chair ; but he 
uttered no word. There was more to come, per- 
haps, yet ; and he might want every chair in the 
room as instruments with which to appease his 
vengeance. 

"You was taDrin', when I just came in, a 
while ago, of a young woman in connection with 
Mr. James Conyers, sir," said the " Softy," turn- 
ing to Matthew Harrison ; " a black-eyed woman, 
you said ; might she have been his wife ?" 

The dog-fancier started, and deliberated for a 
few moments before he answered. 

" Well, in a manner of speaking, she was his 
wife," he said at last, rather reluctantly. 

" She was a bit above him, loike — ^wasn't she?" 
asked the " Softy." " She had more money than 
she knew what to do with — eh ?" 



\ 



170 AURORA FLOYD. 

The dog-fancier stared at the questioner. 

" You know who she was, I suppose ?" he said 
suspiciously. 

"I think I do," whispered Stephen Har- 
graves. "She was the daughter of Mr. Floyd, 
the rich banker oop in London ; and she married 
our squire while her first husband was alive ; and 
she wrote a letter to him. that's dead, askin' 
of him to meet her upon the night of the 
murder." 

Captain Prodder flung aside the chair. It was 
too poor a weapon with which to wreak his wrath ; 
and with one bound he sprang upon the " Softy," 
seizing the astonished wretch by the throat, and 
overturning a table, with a heap of crashing 
glasses and pewter pots, that rolled away into the 
comers of the room. 

"It's a lie!" roared thfe sailor; "you foul- 
mouthed hound ! you know that it's a lie ! Give 
me something," cried Captain Prodder ; " give me 
something, somebody, and give it quick, that I 
may pound this man into a mash as soft as a 
soaked ship's biscuit ; for if I use my fists to him 
I shall murder him, as sure as I stand here. It's 
my sister Eliza's child you want to slander, is it ? 



CAPTAIN PRODDBR GOES BACK TO DONCASTER. 171 

You'd better have kept your mouth shut while 
you was in her own uncle's company. I meant 
to have kep' quiet here," cried the captain, with 
a vague recollection that he had betrayed himself 
and his purpose ; "but was I to keep quiet and 
hear lies told of my own niece ? Take care," he 
added, shaking the " Softy," till Mr. Hargraves's 
teeth chattered in his head, " or Til knock those 
crooked teeth of yours down your ugly throat, to 
hinder you from telling any more Kes of my dead 
sister's only child." 

" They weren't lies," gasped the " Softy," dog- 
gedly ; " I said I've got the letter, and I have got 
it Let me go, and I'll show it to you." 

The sailor released the dirty wisp of cotton 
neckerchief by which he had held Stephen Har- 
graves ; but he still retained a grasp upon his 
coat- collar. 

Shall I show you the letter?" asked the 

Softy." 

" Yes." 

Mr. Hargraves fumbled in his pockets for some 
minutes, and ultimately produced a dirty scrap of 
crumpled paper. 
^ It was the brief scrawl which Aurora had 



ii 



172 AURORA FLOYD. 

^tten to James Conyers, telling him to meet 
her in the wood. The murdered man had thrown 
it carelessly aside after reading it, and it had been 
picked up by Stephen Hargraves. 

He would not trust the precious document out 
of his own clumsy hands, but held it before 
Captain Prodder for inspection. 

The sailor stared at it, anxious, bewildered, 
fearful; he scarcely knew how to estimate the 
importance of the wretched scrap of circum- 
stantial evidence. There were the words, cer- 
tainly, written in a bold, scarcely feminine, hand. 
But these words in themselves proved nothing 
until it could be proved that his niece had written 
them. 

" How do I know as my sister ElLza's child 
wrote that ?" he asked. 

«Ay, sure; but she did though," answered the 
" Softy." " But, coom, let me go now, will you ?" 
he added, with cringing civiUty ; ''I didn't know 
you was her uncle. How was I to know owght 
about it? I don't want to make any mischief 
agen Mrs. MeUish, though she's been no friend to 
me. I didn't say anything at the inquest, did I ? 
tnough I might have said as much as I've said to- 



CAPTAIN PRODDER GOES BACK TO DONCASTER. 173 

night, if it corfies to that, and have told no lies. 
But when folks bother me about him that's dead, 
and ask this and that and t'oother, and go on as if 
I had a right to know all about it, I'm free to tell 
my thoughts, I suppose ? surely I'm free to tell 
my thoughts ?" 

" I'll go straight to Mr. Hellish, and tell him 
what you've said, you scoundrel!" cried the 
captain. 

" Ay, do," whispered Stephen Hargraves mali- 
ciously ; " there's some of it that'll be stale news 
to him, anyhow." 



174 AURORA FLOYD. 



CHAPTEE IX. 

THE DISCOVERY OF THE WEAPON WITH WHICH 
JAMES CONYERS HAD BEEN SLAIN. 

Mr. and Mrs. Mellish returned to the house m 
which they had been so happy ; but it is not to be 
supposed that the pleasant country mansion could 
be again, all in a moment, the home that it had 
been before the advent of James Conyers the 
trainer, and the acting of the tragedy that had so 
abruptly concluded his brief service. 

No; every pang that Aurora had felt, every 
agony that John had endured, had left a certain 
impress upon the scene in which it had been 
suffered. The subtle influences of association 
hung heavily about the familiar place. We are 
the slaves of such associations, and we are power- 
less t6 stand against their silent force. Scraps of 
colour and patches of gilding upon the walls will 
bear upon them, as plainly as if they were covered 




THE DISCOVERY OP THE WEAPON. 175 

with hieroglyphical inscriptions, the shadows of the 
thoughts of those who have looked upon them. 
Transient and chance effects of light or shade will 
recall the same effects, seen and observed — as 
Fagin observed the broken spike upon the guarded 
dock — in some horrible crisis of misery and despair. 
The commonest household goods and chattels will 
bear mute witness of your agonies : an easy-chair 
will say to you, ** It was upon me you cast yourself 
in that paroxysm of rage and grief;" the pattern 
of a dinner-service may recall to you that fatal day 
on which you pushed your food untasted from you, 
and turned your face, like grief-stricken King 
David, to the wall. The bed you lay upon, the 
curtains that sheltered you, the pattern of the 
paper on the walls, the common every-day sounds 
of the household, coming muffled and far-away to 
that lonely room in which you hid yourself, — aU 
these bear record of your sorrow, and of that 
hideous double action of the mind which impresses 
these things most Tividly upon you at the very 
time when it would seem they should be most 
indifferent. 

But every sorrow, every pang of wounded love, 
or doubt, or jealousy, or despair, is a fact — a fact 



176 AURORA FLOYD. 

once, and a fact for ever ; to be outlived, but very 
rarely to be forgotten ; leaving such an impress 
upon our lives as no future joys can quite wear 
out. The murder has been done, and the hands 
are red. The sorrow has been suffered,; and how- 
ever beautiful Happiness may be to us, she can 
never be the bright virginal creature she once was ; 
for she has passed through the valley of the shadow 
of death, and we have discovered that she is not 
immortaL 

It is not to be expected, then, that John Mellish 
and his wife Aurora could feel quite the same in 
the pretty chambers of the Yorkshire mansion as 
they had felt before the first shipwreck of their 
happiness. They had been saved from peril and 
destruction, and landed, by the mercy of Pro- 
vidence, high and dry upon the shore that seemed 
to promise them pleasure and security henceforth. 
But the memory of the tempest was yet new to 
them ; and upon the sands that were so smooth to- 
day they had seen yesterday the breakers beating 
with furious menace, aad hurrying onward to 
destroy them. 

The funeral of the trainer had not yet taken 
place, and it was scarcely a pleasant thing for 



THE DISCOVERY OF THE WEAPON. 177 

Mr. Mellish to remember that the body of the 
murdered man still lay, stark and awful, in the 
oak coffin that stood upon trestles in the rustic 
chamber at the north lodge. 

"I'll puU that place down, Lolly," John said, 
as he turned away from an open window, through 
which he could see the Gk)thic chimneys of the 
trainer's late habitation gUmmering redly aWe 
the trees. "I'll pull the place down, my pet. 
The gates are never used, except by the stable- 
boys ; I'll knock them down, and the lodge too, 
and buUd some loose boxes for the brood-mares 
with the materials. And we'll go away to the 
south of France, darling, and run across to Italy, if 
you like, and forget all about this horrid busi- 
ness." 

" The funeral will take place to-morrow, John, 
will it not ?" Aurora tisked. 

" To-morrow, dear 1 — ^to-morrow is Wednesday, 
you know. It was upon Thursday night that " 

"Tes, yes," she answered, interrupting him 
" I know ; I know." 

She shuddered as she spoke, remembering the 
ghastly circumstances of the night to which he 
alluded; remembering how the dead man had 



178 AURORA FLOYD. 

stood before her, strong in health and vitality, and 
had insolently defied her hatred. Away from 
Mellish Park, she had only remembered that the 
burden of her life had been removed from her, 
and that she was free. But here — ^here upon 
the scene of the hideous story — she recollected 
the manner of her release; and that memory 
oppressed her even more terribly than her old 
secret, her only sorrow. 

She had never se6n or known in this man, who 
had been murdered, one redeeming quality, one 
generous thought. She had known him as a liar, a 
schemer, a low and paltry swindler, a selfish spend- 
thrift, extravagant to wantonness upon himself, but 
meaner than words could tell towards others; a 
profligate, a traitor, a glutton, a drunkard. This is 
what she had found behind her school-girl's fency 
for a handsome face, for violet-tinted eyes, and soft- 
brown curling hair. Do not call her hard, then, if 
sorrow had no part in the shuddering horror she 
felt as she conjured up the image of him in his 
death-hour, and saw the glazing eyes turned 
angrily upon her. She was little more than 
twenty ; and it had been her fate always to take 
the wrong step, always to be misled by the vague 




THE DISCOVERY OF THE WEAPON. 179 

finger-posts upon life's high-road, and to choose 
the longest^ and crookedest, and hardest way to- 
wards the goal she sought to reach. 

Had she, upon the discovery of her first 
husband's infidelity, called the law to her aid, — 
she was rich enough to command its utmost help, 
though Sir Oresswell Cresswell did not then keep 
the turnpike upon such a royal road to divorce as 
he does now, — she might have freed herself fr6m 
the hateful chains so foolishly linked together, and 
might have defied this dead man to torment or 
assail her. 

But she had chosen to follow the counsel of 
expediency, and it had led her upon the crooked 
way through which I have striven to follow her. 
I feel that there is much need of apology for her. 
Her own hands had sown the dragon's teeth, from 
whose evil seed had sprung up armed men, strong 
enough to rend and devour her. But then, if she 
had been faultless, she could not have been the 
heroine of this story ; for I think some wise man 
of old remarked, that the perfect women were 
those who left no histories behind them, but went 
through life upon such a tranquil course of quiet 
well-doing as left no footprints on the sands of 

YOU III. 



180 AURORA FLOYD. 

time ; only mute records hidden here and there, 
deep in the gratefol hearts of those who had been 
blest by them. 

The presence of the dead man within the 
boundary of Mellish Park made itself felt through- 
out the household that had once been such a 
jovial one. The excitement of the catastrophe 
had passed away, and only the dull gloom remained 
— a sense of oppression not to be cast aside. It 
was felt in the servants' hall, as well as in Aurora's 
luxurious apartments. It was felt by the butler as 
well as by the master. No worse deed of violence 
than the slaughter of an unhappy stag, who had 
rushed for a last refuge to the Mellish Park flower- 
garden, and had been run down by furious hounds 
upon the velvet lawn, had ever before been done 
within the boundary of the young squire's^ home. 
The house was an old one, and had stood, gray and 
ivy-shrouded, through the perilous days of civil 
war. There were secret passages, in which loyal 
squires of Mellish Park had hidden from ferocious 
Eoundheads bent upon riot and plimder. There 
were broad hearth-stones, upon which sturdy 
blows had been given and exchanged by strong 
men in leathern jerkins and clumsy iron-heeled 




THE DISCOVERY OF THE WEAPON. 181 

boots ; but the Eoyalist Mellish had always ulti- 
mately escaped, — ^up a chimney, or down a cellar, 
or behind a curtain of tapestry ; and the wicked 
Praise-the-Lord Thompsons, and Smiter-of-the- 
Philistines Joneses, had departed after plundering 
the plate-chest and emptying the wine-barrels. 
There had never before been set upon the place in 
which John Mellish had first seen the light, the red 
hand of Mubder. 

It was not strange, then, that the servants sat 
long over their meals, and talked in solemn 
wljispers of the events of the past week. There 
was more than the murder to talk about. There 
was the flight of Mrs. Mellish from beneath her 
husband's roof upon the very day of the inquest. 
It was aU very well for John to give out that his 
wife had gone up to town upon a visit to her 
cousin, Mrs. Bulstrode. Such ladies as Mrs. Mel- 
lish do not go upon visits without escort, without a 
word of notice, without the poorest pretence of bag 
and baggage. No ; the mistress of Mellish Park 
had fled away from her home under the influence 
of some sudden panic. Had not Mrs. Powell said 
as much, ot hinted as much ? for when did that 
lady-like creature ever vulgarize her opinions by 

O 2 



182 AURORA FLOrD, 

stating them plainly? The matter was obvions. 
Mr. MeUish had taken, no doubt, the wisest 
course : he had pursued his wife and had brought 
her back, and had done his best to hush up the 
matter ; but Aurora's departure had been a flight, 
— ^a sudden and unpremeditated flight. 

The lady's-maid, — ah, how many handsome 
dresses, given to her by a generous mistress, lay 
neatly folded in the girl's boxes on the second 
story 1 — ^told how Aurora had come to her room, 
pale and wild-looking, and had dressed herself 
unassisted for that hurried journey, upon the day of 
the inquest. The girl liked her mistress, loved 
her, perhaps ; for Aurora had a wondrous and 
almost dangerous faculty for winning the love of 
those who came near her ; but it was so pleasant to 
have something to say about this all-absorbing 
topic, and to be able to make oneself a feature in 
the solemn conclave. At first they had talked 
only of the murdered man, speculating upon his 
life and history, and building up a dozen theo- 
retical views of the murder. But the tide had 
turned now, and they talked of their mistress ; not 
connecting her in any positive or openly expressed 
manner with the murder, but commenting upon 




THE DISCOVERY OF THE WEAPON. 183 

the strangeness of her conduct, and dwelling 
much upon those singular coincidences by which 
she had happened to be roaming in the park upon 
the night of the catastrophe, and to run away from 
her home on the day of the inquest. 

'* It was odd, you know," the cook said ; ** and 
them black-eyed women are generally regular 
spirity ones. I shouldn't like to offend Master 
John's wife. Do you remember how she paid 
into t' 'Softy'?" 

" But there was naught o' sort between her and 
the trainer, was there ?" asked some one. 

"I don't know about that. But * Softy' said 
she hated him like poison, and that there was no 
love lost between 'em." 

But why should Aurora have hated the dead 
man ? The ensign's widow had left the sting of 
her venom behind her, and had suggested to these 
servants, by hints and innuendos, something so far 
more base and hideous than the truth, that I will 
not sully these pages by recording it. But Mrs. 
Powell had of course done this foul thing without 
the utterance of one ugly word that could 
have told against her gentility, had it been 
repeated aloud in a crowded drawing-room. She 



184 AITEORA FLOYD. 

• 

had only shrugged her shoulders^ and lifted her 
gtraw-coloured eyebrows, and sighed half regretr 
folly, half deprecatingly ; bat she had blasted the 
character of the woman she hated as shamefdllv 
as if she had uttered a libel too gross for Holywell 
Street. She had done a wrong that could only 
be undone by the exhibition of the blood- 
stained certificate in John's keeping, and the reve- 
lation of the whole story connected with that 
fatal scrap of paper. She had [done this before 
packing her boxes; and she had gone away 
from the house that had sheltered her, well- 
pleased at having done this wrong; and com- 
forting herself yet further by the intention of 
doing more mischief through the medium of the 
penny post. 

It is not to be supposed that the Manchester 
paper, 'which had caused so serious a discussion 
in the humble parlour of the Crooked Eabbit, had 
been overlooked in the servants' hall at Mellish 
Park. The Manchester journals were regularly 
forwarded to the young squire from that metro- 
polis of cotton-spinning and horse-racing; and 
the mysterious letter in the * Guardian ' had been 
read and commented upon. Every creature in 




THE discovery: of the weapon. 185 

that household, from the fat housekeeper, who had 
kept the keys of the store-room through nearly 
three generations, to the rheumatic trainer, 
Langley, had a certain interest in the awfiil 
question. A nervous footman turned pale as that 
passage was read which declared that the murder 
had been committed by some member of the 
household ; but I think there were some younger 
and more adventurous spirits — especially a pretty 
housemaid, who had seen the thrilling drama of 
* Susan Hopley ' performed at the Doncaster theatre 
during the spring meeting — who would have 
rather liked to be accused of the cnme, and to 
emerge spotless and triumphant from the judicial 
ordeal, through the evidence of an idiot, or a 
magpie, or a ghost, or some other witness common 
and popular in criminal courts. 

Did Aurora know anything of all this ? No ; 
she only knew that a dull and heavy sense of 
oppression in her own breast made the very 
summer atmosphere floating in at the open 
windows seem stifling and poisonous; that the 
house, which had once been so dear to her, was as 
painfully and perpetually haunted by the ghastly 
presence of the murdered man, as if th^ dead 



186 AURORA FLOYD. 

trainer had stalked palpably about the corridors 
wrapped in a bloodnstained windingnsheet. 

She dined with her husbiuid alone in the great 
dining-room. They were very silent at dinner, for 
the presence of the servants sealed their lips upon 
the topic that was uppermost in their minds. John 
looked anxiously at his wife every now and then, 
for he saw that her face had grown paler since her 
arrival at Mellish ; but he waited until they were 
alone before he spoke. 

" My darling," he said, as the door closed behind 
the butler and his subordinate, " I am sure you 
are ill. This business has been too much for 
you." 

"It is the air of this house that seems to 
oppress me, John," answered Aurora. " I had for- 
gotten all about this dreadful business while I was 
away. Now that I have come back, and find that 
the time which has been so long to me — so long 
in misery and anxiety, and so long in joy, my own 
dear love, through you — is in reality only a few 
days, and that the murdered man still lies near us, 
I — ; I shall be better when — when the funeral is 
over, John." 

" My poor darling, I was a fool to bring you 



THE DISCOVERY OF THE WEAPON. 187 

back I should never have done so, but for 
Talbot's a vice. He urged me so strongly to 
come back directly. He said that if there should 
be any disturbance about the murder, we ought to 
be upon the spot" 

'^Disturbance! What disturbance?" cried 
Aurora. 

Her face blanched as she spoke, and her heart 
sank within her. What further disturbance could 
there be ? Was the ghastly business as yet un- 
finished, then ? She knew — alas ! only too well — 
that there could be no investigation of this matter 
which would not bring her name before the world 
linked with the name of the dead man. How 
much she had endured in order to keep that 
shameful secret from the world ! How much she 
had sacrificed in the hope of saving her father 
from humiliation I And now, at the last, when 
she had thought that the dark chapter of her 
life was finished, the hateful page blotted out, 
— ^now, at the very last, there was a probability 
of some new disturbance which would bring her 
name and her history into every newspaper in 
England. 

" Oh, John, John !" she cried, bursting into a 



188 AURORA FLOYD. 

passion of hysterical sobs, and covering her face 
with her clasped hands ; "am I never to hear the 
hst of this? Am I never, never, never to be 
released from the consequences of my misemble 
foUy?" 

The butler entered the room as she said this ; 
she rose hurriedly, and walked to one of the 
windows, in order to conceal her face from the 
man. 

" I beg your pardon, sir," the old servant said ; 
" but they've found something in the park, and I 
thought perhaps you might like to know " 

"They've found something! What?" ex- 
claimed John, utterly bewildered between his 
agitation at the sight of his wife's grief and his 
endeavour to understand the man. 

" A pistol, sir. One of the stable-lads found it 
just now. He went to the wood with another boy 
to look at the place where — the — the man was 
shot ; and he's brought back a pistol hei found 
there. It was close against the water, but hid 
away among the weeds and rushes. Whoever 
threw it there, thought, no doubt, to throw it 
in the pond ; but Jim, that's one of the boys, 
&ncied he saw something glitter, and sure 



THE DISCOVERY OF THE WEAPON. 189 

enough it was the barrel of a pistol ; and I think 

must be the one that the trainer was shot with, 

Mr. John." 

" A pistol !" cried Mr. Mellish ; ** let me see it." 
His servant handed him the weapon. It was 

small enough for a toy, but none the less deadly 
in a skilful hand. It was a rich man's fancy, 
deftly carried out by some cunning gunsmith, and 
enriched by elaborate inlaid work of purple steel 
and tarnished silver. It was rusty, from exposure 
to rain and dew ; but Mr. Mellish knew the pistol 
well, for it was his own. 

It was his own ; one of his pet playthings ; and 
it had been kept in the room which was only 
entered by privileged persons,— the room in which 
his wife had busied herself with the rearrange- 
ment of his guns upon the day of the murder. 



190 AURORA FLOYD, 



CHAPTEE X. 

UNDER A CLOUD. 

Talbot Bulstrode and his wife came to Mellish 
Park a few days after the return of John and 
Aurora. Lucy was pleased to come to her 
cousin ; pleased to be allowed to love her without 
reservation; grateful to her husband for his 
gracious goodness in setting no barrier between 
her and the friend she loved. 

And Talbot, — who shall tell the thoughts that 
were busy in his mind, as he sat in a comer of 
the first-class carriage, to aU outward appearance 
engrossed in the perusal of a * Times ' leader? 

I wonder how much of the Thunderer's noble 
Saxon English Mr. Bulstrode comprehended that 
morning ! The broad white paper on which the 
* Times ' is printed serves as a convenient screen 
for a man's face. Heaven knows what agonies 
have been sometimes endured behind that printed 



UNDER A CLOUD. 19l 

mask ! A woman, married, and a happy mother, 
glances carelessly enough at the Births and 
Marriages and Deaths, and reads perhaps that 
the man she loved, and parted with, and broke 
her heart for, fifteen or twenty years before, has 
fallen, shot through the heart, far away upon an 
Indian battle-field. She holds the paper firmly 
enough before her face ; and her husband goes on 
with his breakfast, and stirs his coffee, or breaks 
his egg, while she suffers her agony, — while the 
comfortable breakfast-table darkens and goes 
away from her, and the long-ago day comes back 
upon which the cruel ship left Southampton, and 
the hard voices of well-meaning friends held forth 
monotonously upon the folly of improvident 
marriages. Would it not be better, by-the-by, 
for wives to make a practice of telling their 
husbands all the sentimental little stories con- 
nected with the pre-matrimonial era ? Would it 
not be wiser to gossip freely about Charles's dark 
eyes and moustache, and to hope that the poor 
fellow is getting on well in the Indian service, 
than to keep a skeleton, in the shape of a 
phantom ensign in the 87th, hidden away in some 
dark chamber of the feminine memory ? 



192 AURORA FLOYD. 

But other than womanly agonies are sufifered 
behind the ^ Times.' The husband reads bad 
news of the railway company in whose shares he 
has so rashly invested that money which his wife 
believes safely lodged in the jog-trot, three-per- 
cent.-yielding Consols. The dashing son, with 
Newmarket tendencies, reads evil tidings of the 
horse he has backed so boldly, perhaps at the 
advice of a Manchester prophet, who warranted 
putting his friends in the way of winning a hatful 
of money for the small consideration of three- 
and-sixpence in postage-stamps. Visions of a 
book that it will not be very easy to square ; of a 
black list of play or pay engagements ; of a crowd 
of angry book-men clamorous for their dues, and 
not slow to hint at handy horse-ponds, and 
possible tar and feathers, for defaulting swells and 
sneaking " welshers" ; all these things flit across 
the disorganized brain of the young man, while 
his sisters are entreating to be told whether the 
' Crown Diamonds ' is to be performed that night, 
and if " dear Miss Pyne " will warble Eode's air 
before the curtain falls. The friendly screen hides 
his face ; and by the time he has looked for the 
Covent Garden advertisements, and given the re- 



^.. 



U^^DER A CLOUD. 193 

quired information, he is able to set the paper 
down and proceed cabnly with his breakfast, pon- 
dering ways and means as he does so. 

Lucy Bulstrode read a High-Church novel, 
while her husband sat with the * Times' before 
his face, thinking of all that had happened to him 
since he had first met the banker s daughter. 
How fax away that old love-story seemed to have 
receded since the quiet domestic happiness of his 
life had begun in his marriage with Lucy ! He 
had never been false, in the remotest shadow of a 
thought, to his second love; but now that he 
knew the secret of Aurora's life, he could but 
look back and wonder how he should have borne 
that cruel revelation if John's fate had been his ; 
if he had trusted the woman he loved in spite of 
the world, in spite of her own strange words, 
which had so terribly strengthened his worst fears, 
so cruelly redoubled his darkest doubts. 

"Poor girl!" he thought; "it was scarcely 
strange that she should shrink from telling that 
humiliating story. I was not tender enough. I 
confronted her in my obstinate and pitiless pride. 
I thought of myself rather than of her, and of her 
sorrow. I was barbarous and ungentlemanly ; 



I 



194 AURORA FLOYD. 

and then I wondered that she refused to confide 
in me." 

Talbot Bulstrode, reasoning after the fact, saw 
the weak points of his conduct with a preter- 
natural clearness of vision, and could not repress 
a sharp pang of regret that he had not acted more 
generously. There was no infidelity to Lucy in 
this thought He would not have exchanged his 
devoted little wife for the black-browed divinity 
of the past, though an all-powerful fairy had stood 
at his side ready to cancel his nuptials and tie a 
fresh knot between him and Aurora. But he was 
a gentleman, and he felt that he had grievously 
wronged, insulted and humiliated a woman whose 
worst fault had been the trusting folly of an in- 
nocent girl. 

"I left her on the ground in that room at 
Felden," he thought, — " kneeling on the ground, 
with her beautiful head bowed down before me. 
my God, can I ever forget the agony of that 
moment ! Can I ever forget what it cost me to 
do that which I thought was right !" 

The cold perspiration broke out upon his fore- 
head as he remembered that bygone pain, as it 
may do with a cowardly person who recalls too 



CJNDEB A CLOUD. 195 

vividly the taking out of a three-pronged double- 
tooth, or the cutting off of a limb. 

"John Mellish was ten times wiser tljan I," 
thought Mr. Bulstrode ; " he trusted to his instinct, 
and recognized a true woman when he met her. I 
used to despise him at Eugby because he couldn't 
construe Cicero. I never thought he'd live to be 
wiser than m,e." 

Talbot Bulstrode folded the * Times ' newspaper, 
and laid it down in the empty seat by his side, 
Lucy shut the third volume of her novel. How 
should she care to read when it pleased her 
husband to desist from reading ? 

" Lucy," said Mr. Bulstrode, taking his wife's 
hand (they had the carriage to themselves — ^a 
piece of good fortune which often happens to 
travellers who give the guard half-a-crown), — 
"Lucy, I once did your cousin a great wrong; 
I want to atone for it now. If any trouble, which 
no one yet foresees, should come upon her, I want 
to be her friend. Do you think I am right in 
wishing this, dear?" 

"Eight, Talbot!" 

Mrs. Bulstrode could only repeat the word 
in unmitigated surprise. When did she ever 

VOL. m. P 



196 AURORA FLOYD. 

think him anything but the truest and wisest and 
most perfect of created beings ? 

Everything seemed very quiet at MelKsh when 
the visitors arrived. There was no one in the 
drawing-room, nor in the smaller room within 
the drawing-room ; the Venetians were closed, for 
the day was close and sultry; there were vases 
of fresh flowers upon the tables ; but there were 
no open books, no litter of frivolous needlework or 
drawing-materials, to indicate Aurora's presence. 

**Mr. and Mrs. Mellish expected you by the 
later train, I believe, sir," the servant said, 
as he ushered Talbot and his wife into the draw- 

« 

ing-room. 

" Shall I go and look for Aurora ?" Lucy said 
to her husband. " She is in the morning-room, T 
dare say." 

Talbot suggested that it would be better, per- 
haps, to wait till Mrs. Mellish came to them. 
So Lucy was fain to remain where she was. She 
went to one of the open windows, and pushed 
the shutters apart. The blazing sunshine burst 
into the room, and drowned it in light. The 
smooth lawn was aflame with scarlet geraniums 
•and standard roses, and all manner of gaudily- 



vmmR A CLOUD, 197 

coloured blossoms; but Mrs. Bulstrode looked 
beyond this vividly-tinted parterre to the thick 
woods, that loomed darkly purple against the 
glowing sky. 

It was in that very wood that her husband 
had declared his love for her; the same wood 
that had since been outraged by violence and 
murder. 

" The — the man is buried, I suppose, Talbot ?" 
she said to her husband. 

*^ I believe so, my dear." 

" I should never care to live in this place again, 
if I were Aurora." 

The door [opened before Mrs. Bulstrode had 
finished speaking, and the mistress of the house 
came towards them. She welcomed them affec- 
tionately and kindly, taking Lucy in her arms, 
and greeting her very tenderly; but Talbot 
saw that she had changed terribly within the 
few days that had passed since her return to 
Yorkshire, and his heaxt sank as he observed 
her pale face and the dark circles about her 
hollow eyes. 

Could she have heard ^? Could anybody 

have given her reason to suppose ? 

p 2 



198 . AURORA FLOYD, 

** Tou are not well, Mrs. Mellish," he said; as 
he took her hand. 

"No, not very well. This oppressive weather 
makes my head ache." 

"I am sorry to see you looking ill. Where 
shall I find John ?" asked Mr. Bulstrode. 

Aurora's pale face flushed suddenly. 

" I — I — doii't know," she stammered. " He is 
not in the house; he has gone out — ^to the 
stables — or to the farm, I think. I'll^send for 
him." 

"No, no," Talbot said, intercepting her hand 
on its way to the bell. "I'll go and look for 
him. Lucy will be glad of a chat with you, I 
dare say, Aurora, and will not be sorry to get rid 
of me." 

Lucy, with her arm about her cousin's waist, 
assented to this arrangement. She was grieved 
to see the change in Aurora's looks, the unnatural 
constraint of her manner. 

Mr. Bulstrode walked away, hugging himself 
upon having done a very mse thing. 

" Lucy is a great deal more likely to find out 
what is the matter than I am," he thought. 
" There is a sort of freemasonry between women, 



^ 



Uin)ER A CLOUD, 199 

an electric affinity, which a man's presence always 
destroys. How deathly pale Aurora looks I Can 
it be possible that the trouble I expected has 
come so soon ?" 

He went to the stables, but not so much to 
look for John Mellish as in the hope of finding 
somebody intelligent enough to famish him with 
a better account of the murder than any he had 
yet heard. 

" Some one else, as well as Aurora, must have 
had a reason for wishing to j get rid of this man,'* 
he thought. "There must have been some 
motive : revenge, — ^gain, — something which no 
one has yet fathomed." 

He went into the stable-yard; but he had 
no opportunity of making his investigation, for 
John Mellish was standing in a hstless attitude be- 
fore a small forge, watching the shoeing of one 
of his horses. The young squire looked up with 
a start as he recognized Talbot, and gave him his 
hand, with a few straggling words of welcome. 
Even in that moment Mr. Bulstrode saw that there 
was perhaps a greater change in John's appear- 
ance than in that of Aurora. The Yorkshireman's 
blue eyes had lost their brightness, his step its 



200 AURORA FLOYD, 

elasticity ; his face seemed sunken and haggard, 
and he evidently avoided meeting Talbot's eye. 
He lounged listlessly away from the forge, walk- 
ing at his guest's side in the direction of the 
stable-gates ; but he had the air of a man who 
neither knows nor cares whither he is going. 

"Shall we go to the house?" he said. "Tou 
must want some luncheon after your journey." 
He looked at his watch as he said this. It was 
half-past three, an hour after the usual time for 
luncheon at Hellish. 

" I've been in the stables all the morning," he 
said. ** We're busy making our preparations for 
the York Summer." 

"What horses do you run?" Mr. Bulstrode 
asked, politely affecting to be interested in a 
subject that was utterly indifferent to him, in the 
hope that stable-talk might rouse John from his 
listless apathy. 

" What horses !" repeated Mr. Mellish vaguely. 
"I — ^I hardly know. Langley manages all that 
for me, you know ; and — I — ^I forget the names of 
the horses he proposed, and '' 

Talbot Bulstrode turned suddenly upon his 
friend, and looked him full in the fiEtce. They 



UNDSB A CLOUD. 201 

had left the stables by this time, and were ia a 
shady pathway that led through a shrubbery to- 
wards the house. 

** John Mellish," he said, ** this is not feir to- 
wards an old friend. You have something on 
your mind, and you are trying to hide it from 
me." 

The squire turned away his head. 

"I have something on my mind, Talbot,'* he 
said quietly. "If you could help me, Td ask 
your help more than any man's. But you can't 
— ^you can't !" 

"But suppose I think I eon help you?" cried 
Mr. Bulstrode. " Suppose I mean to try and do 
so, whether you will or no ? I think I can guess 
what your trouble is, John ; but I thought you 
were a braver man than to give way under it ; I 
thought you were just the sort of man to struggle 
through it nobly and bravely, and to get the 
better of it by your own strength of wiU." 

"What do you meanl" exclaimed John Mel- 
lish. " You can guess — you know — you thought ! 
Have you no mercy upon me, Talbot Bulstrode ? 
Can't you see that I'm almost mad, and that this 
is no time for you to force your sympathy upon 



202 AURORA FLOYD. 

me? Do you want me to betray myself ? Do 
you want me to betray " 

He stopped suddenly, as if the words had 
choked him, and, passionately stamping his foot 
upon the ground, walked on hurriedly, with his 
friend 8tiU by his side. 

The dining-room looked dreary enough when 
the two men entered it, although the table gave 
promise of a very substantial luncheon ; but there 
was no one to welcome them, or to officiate at the 
banquet, 

John seated himself wearily in a chair at the 
bottom of the table. 

"You had better go and see if Mrs. Bulstrode 
and your mistress are coming to luncheon," he 
said to a servant, who left the room with his 
master's message, and returned three minutes 
afterwards to say that the ladies were not 
coming. 

^The ladies were seated side by side upon a 
low sofa in Aurora's morning-room. Mrs. Mellish 
sat with her head upon her cousin's shoulder. 
She had never had a sister, remember ; and gentle 
Lucy stood in place of that near and tender com- 
forter. Talbot was perfectly right ; Lucy had ac- 



Ik.. 



UNDER A CLOUD. 203 

feomplished that which he would have failed to 
bring about. She had found the key to her 
cousin's unhappiness. 

" Ceased to love you, dear !" exclaimed Mrs. 
Bulstrode, echoing the words that Aurora had last 
spoken. " Impossible !" 

" It is true, Lucy," answered Mrs. MeUish, de- 
spairingly. " He has ceased to love me. There 
is a black cloud between us now, now that all 
secrets are done away with. It is very bitter for 
me to bear, Lucy ; for I thought we should be so 
happy and united. But — ^but it is only natural. 
He feels the degradation so much. How can he 
look at me without remembering who and what I 
am ? The widow of his groom ! Can I wonder 
that he avoids me ?" 

"Avoids you, dear?" 

" Yes, avoids me. We have scarcely spoken a 
dozen words to each other since the night of our 
return. He was so good to me, so tender and 
devoted during the journey home, telling me 
again and again that this discovery had not 
lessened his love, that all the trial and horror of 
the past few days had only shown him the great 
strength of his affection ; but on the night of our 



204 AURORA FLOYD. 

return, Lucy, he changed — changed suddenly and 
inexplicably ; and now I feel that there is a gulf 
between us that can neyer be passed again. He 
is alienated from me for ever !" 

" Aurora, all this is impossible," remonstrated 
Lucy. " It is your own morbid fancy, darling." 

* " My fancy 1" cried Aurora bitterly. " Ah, 
Lucy, you cannot know how much I love my 
husband, if you think that I could be deceived in 
one look or tone of his. Is it my fancy that he 
averts his eyes when he speaks to me ? Is ^.it^my 
fancy that his voice changes when he pronounces 
my name ? Is it m^ fancy that he roams about 
the house like a ghost,i and paces up and down his 
room half the night thiiough ? If these things are 
my fancy. Heaven have mercy upon me, Lucy ; 
for I must be going mad." 

Mrs. Bulstrode started as she looked at her 
cousin. Could it be possible that all the trouble 
and confusion of the past week or two had indeed 
.unsettled this poor gill's intellect ? 

" My poor Aurora !" she murmured, smoothing 
the heavy hair away from her cousin's tearful 
eyes : " my poor darling ! how is it possible that 
John should change towards you ? He loved you 



UNDER A CLOUD. 205' 

80 dearly, ^80 devotedly; surely nothing could 

aUenate him from you." 

" I used to think so, Lucy," Aurora murmured 

in a low, heart-broken voice ; " I used to think 

nothing could ever come to part us. He said he 

would follow me to the uttermost end of the 

world ; he said that no obstacle on earth should 
ever separate us ; and now '' 

She could not finish the sentence, for she broke 

into convulsive sobs, and hid her face upon her 
cousin's shoulder, staining Mrs. Bulstrode's pretty 

• silk dress with her hot tears. 

" Oh, my love, my love !*' she cried piteously, 
"why didn't I run away and hide myself from 
you ? why didn't I trust to my first instinct, and 
run away from you for ever ? Any suffering 
would be better than this ! any suffering would be 
better than this !" 

Her passionate grief merged into a fit of 
hysterical weeping, in which she was no longer 
mistress of herself. She had suffered for the past 
few days more bitterly than she had ever suffered 
yet. Lucy understood all that. She was one of 
those people whose tenderness instinctively com- 
prehends the griefe of others. She knew how to 



206 JIURORA FLOYD. 

treat her cousin ; and in less than an hour after 
this emotional outbreak Aurora was lying on her 
bed, pale and exhausted, but sleeping peacefully. 
She had carried the burden of her sorrow in 
silence during the past few days, and had spent 
sleepless nights in brooding over her trouble. 
Her conversation with Lucy had unconsciously 
relieved her, and she slumbered calmly after the 
storm. Lucy sat by the bed watching the 
sleeper for some time, and then stole on tiptoe 
from the room. 

She went, of course, to tell her husband all that 
had passed, and to take counsel from his sublime 
wisdom. 

She found Talbot in the drawing-room alone ; 
he had eaten a dreary luncheon in John's com- 
pany, and had been hastily left by his host imme- 
diately after the meal. There had been no sound 
of carriage-wheels upon the graveUed drive all 
that morning; there had been no callers at 
Mellish Park since John's return ; for a horrible 
scandal had spread itself throughout the length 
and breadth of the county, and those who spoke of 
the young squire and his wife talked in solemn 
under-tones, and gravely demanded of each other 



UNDER A CLOUD. 207 

whether some serious step should not be taken 
about the business which was uppermost in eveiy 
body's mind. 

Lucy told Talbot all that Aurora had said to 
her. This was no breach of confidence in the 
young wife's code of morality ; for were not she 
and her husband immutably one, and how could 
she have any secret from him? 

" I thought so !" Mr. Bulstrode said, when Lucy 
had finished her story. 

" You thought what, dear ?" 

" That the breach between John and Aurora 
was a serious one. Don't look so sorrowful, my 
darling. It must be our business to reunite these 
divided lovers. You shall comfort Aurora, Lucy ; 
and I'll look after John." 

Talbot Bulstrode kissed his little wife, and 
went straight away upon his friendly errand. He 
found John Mellish in his own room, — ^the room 
in which Aurora had written to him upon the day 
of her flight; the room from which the murderous 
weapon had been stolen by some unknown hand. 
John had hidden the rusty pistol in one of the 
locked drawers of his Davenport ; but it was not 
to be supposed that the fact of its discovery could 



208 AUKORA FLOYD. 

be locked up or hidden away. TJiat had been 
fully discussed in the servants' hall; and who 
shall doubt that it had travelled further, perco- 
lating through some of those smuous channels 
which lead away from every household ? 

"I want you to come for a walk with me, 
Mr. John MeUish,'* said Talbot, imperatively ; 
" so put on your hat, and come into the park. 
You are the most agreeable gentleman I ever 
had the honour to visit, and the attention 
you pay your guests is really something remark- 
able." 

Mr. Mellish made no reply to this speech. He 
stood before his friend, pale, silent, and sullen. 
He was no more like the hearty Yorkshire squire 
whom we have known, than he was like Viscount 
Palmerston or Lord Clyde. He was transformed 
out of himself by some great trouble that was 
preying upon his mind; and being of a trans- 
parent and childishly truthful disposition, was 
unable to disguise his anguish. 

"John, John!" cried Talbot, "we were little 
boys together at Eugby, and have backed each 
other in a dozen childish fights. Is it kind of you 
to withhold your friendship from me now, when I 



UNDER A CLOUD. 209 

have come here on purpose to be a ftiend to you 
— to you and to Aurora ?" 

John Mellish turned away his head as his friend 
mentioned that &miliar name ; and the gesture 
was not lost upon Mr. Bulstrode. 

** John, why do you refiise to trust me ?* 

" I don't refuse. I ^Why did you come to 

this accursed house ?*' cried John Mellish, passion- 
ately ; " why did you come here, Talbot Bul- 
strode ? You don't know the blight that is upon 
this place, and those who live in it, or you would 
have no more come here than you would willingly 
go to a plague-stricken city. Do you know that 
since I came back from London not a creature 
has called at this house ? Do you know that when 
I and — and — ^my wife — ^wentto chiu'ch on Sunday, 
the people we knew sneaked away from our path 
as if we had just recovered from typhus fever ? 
Do you know that the cursed gaping rabble 
come from Doncaster to stare over the park- 
paUngs, and that this house is a show to half 
the West Biding ? Why do you come here ? 
You will be stared at, and grinned at, and 
scandalized, — ^you, who Go back to London to- 
night, Talbot, if you don't want to drive me mad." 



210 AURORA FLOYD. 

"Not till you trust me with your troubles, 
John," answered Mr. Bulstrode firmly. "Put 
on your hat, and come out with me. I want 
you to show me the spot where the murder was 
done." 

" You may get some one else to show it you," 
muttered John, sullenly ; "I'll not go there !" 

" John Mellish !" cried Talbot suddenly, " am I 
to think you a coward and a fool ? By the heaven 
that's above me, I shall think so if you persist in 
this nonsense. Come out into the park with me ; 
I have the claim of past friendship upon you, and 
I'll not have that claim set aside by any folly of 
yours." 

The two men went out upon the lawn, John 
complying moodily enough with his friend's re- 
quest, and walked silently across the park towards 
that portion of the wood in which James Conyers 
had met his death. They had reached one of the 
loneliest and shadiest avenues in this wood, and 
were, in fact, close against the spot from which 
Samuel Prodder had watched his niece and her 
companion on the night of the murder, when 
Talbot stopped suddenly, and laid his hand on the 
squire's shoulder. 




UNDER A CLOUt). 211 

" John/' he said, in a determined tone, " before 
we go to look at the place where this bad man 
died, you must tell me your trouble." 

Mr. Mellish drew himself up proudly, and 
looked at the speaker with gloomy defiance lower- 
ing upon his face. 

" I will tell no man that which I do not choose 
to tell," he said firmly ; and then with a sudden 
change that was terrible to see, he cried impetu- 
ously, " Why do you torment me, Talbot ? I tell 
you that I can't trust you — I can't trust any one, 
upon earth. If — ^if I told you — ^the horrible thought 
that — if I told you, it would be your duty to — I — 
Talbot, Talbot, have pity upon me — let me alone* 
— go away from me — I " 

Stamping furiously, as if he would have tramjied 
down the cowardly despair for which he despised 
himself, and beating his forehead with his clenched 
fists, John Mellish turned away from his friend, 
and, leaning against the gnarled branch of a great 
oak, wept aloud. Talbot Btdstrode waited till the 
paroxysm had passed away before he spoke again ; 
but when his friend had grown calmer, he linked 
his arm about him, and drew him away almost as 
tenderly as if the big Yorkshireman had been some 

VOL. III. Q 



212 -iTOORA FWYjy., 

sorrowing woman, sorely in wed of manly help 
and comfort. 

" John, John," he said gravely, *' thank God for 
this ; thank God for anything that breaks the ice 
between us. I know what your trouble is, poor 
old friend, and I know that you have no cause for 
it Hold up your head, man, and look straightfor- 
ward to a happy future. I know the black thought 
that has been gnawing at your poor foolish manly 
heart: you think that Avsrora murdered the 
^room r 

John Mellish, started, shuddering convulsively. 

"No, no," he gasped; "who said so— rwho 
said r 

" You think this, John," continued Talbot Bul- 
strode ; " and you do her the most grievous wrong 
that ever yet was done to woman ; a more shame- 
fid wrong than I committed when I thought that 
Aurora Floyd had been guilty of some base 
intxigue." 

" You don't know " stammered John. 

" I don't know ! I know all, and foresaw trouble 
for you, before you saw the cloud that was in the 
sky. But I never dreamt of this. I thought the 
foolish country people would suspect your wife, as 



k 



Vm>ER A CLOUD, 213 

it always pleases people to try and fix a crime 
upon the person in whom that crime would be 
more particulariy atrocious. I was prepared for 
this ; but to think that you — ^you, John, who should 
have learned to know your wife by this time— to 
think that you should suspect the woman you have 
loved of a foul and treacherous murder I" 

" How do we know that the — that the man was 
murdered ?" cried John vehemently. " Who says 
that the deed was treacherously done ? He may 
have goaded her beyond endurance, insulted her 
generous pride, stung her to the very quick, and 
in the madness of her passion — ^having that 
wretched pistol in her possession — ^she may *' 

"Stop!" interrupted Talbot "What pistol? 
you. told me the weapon had not been found." 

" It was found upon the night of our return." 

" Yes ; but why do you associate this weapon 
with Aurora ? What do you mean by saying that 
the pistol was in her possession ?" 

"Because — my God! Talbot, why do you 
wring these things from me ?" 

" For your own good, and for the justification of 
an innocent woman; so help me, Heaven!" 
answered Mr. Bulstrode. " Do not be afraid to be 

Q 2 



214 JIURORA FLOYD. 

candid with me, John. Nothing would ever make 
me believe Aurora Mellish guilty of this crime." 

The Yorkshireman turned suddenly towards his 
friend, and leaning upon Talbot Bulstrode's shoul- 
der, wept for the second time during that woodland 
ramble. 

" May God in heaven bless you for this, Tal- 
bot !" he cried passionately. " Ah, my love, my 
dear, what a wretch I have been to you! but 
Heaven is my witness that, even in my worst 
agony of doubt and horror, my love has never 
lessened. It never could ! — it never could !" 

" John, old feUow," said Mr. Bulstrode, cheer- 
fully, " perhaps, instead of talking this nonsense, 
which leaves me entirely in the dark as to every- 
thing that has happened since you left London, 
you will do me the favour to enlighten me as to 
the cause of these foolish suspicions." 

They had reached the ruined summer-house and 
the pool of stagnant water, on the margin of which 
James Conyers had met with his death. Mr. 
Bulstrode seated himself upon a pile of broken 
timber, while John MeUish paced up and down the 
smooth patch of turf between the summer-house 
and the water, and told, disjointedly enough, the 




4 >:^^ h> 



UNDER A CLOUD. 215 

story of the finding of the pistol, which had been 
taken out of his room. 

" I saw that pistol upon the day of the murder," 
he said. " I took particular notice of it ; for I was 
cleaning my guns that morning, and I left them 
all in confusion while I went down to the lodge to 
see the trainer. When I came back — ^I " 

" Well, what then ?' 

** Aurora had been setting my guns in order." 

** You argue, therefore, that your wife took the 
pistol ?" 

John looked piteously at his friend ; but Talbot's 
grave smile reassured him. 

"No one else had permission to go into the 
room," he answered, "I teep my papers and 
accounts there, you know ; and it's an understood 
thing that none of the servants are allowed to go 
there, except when they clean the room." 

" To be sure ! But the room is not locked, I 
suppose ?" 

" Locked ! of course not !" 

" And the windows — which open to the ground 
— are sometimes left open, I dare say ?" 

" Almost always in such weather as this." 

** Then, my dear John, it may be just possible 



216 AURORA FLOYD. 

that some one who had not permission to enter the 
room did, nevertheless, enter it, for the purpose of 
abstracting this pistol. Have you asked Aurora 
why she took upon herself to rearrange your 
guns ? — she had never done such a thing before, 1 
suppose?' 

" Oh, yes, very often. I'm rather in the habit 
of leaving them about after cleaning them ; and 
my dariing understands all about them as weU as 
I do. She has often put them away for me.** 

"Then there was nothing particular in her 
doing so upon the day of the miurder. Have you 
asked her how long she was in your room, and 
whether she can remember seeing this particular 
pistol, among others T 

**Ask her!" exclaimed John; "how could I 
ask her, when *' 

" When you have been mad enough to suspect 
her. No, my poor old friend; you made the 
same mistake that I committed at Felden. You 
presupposed the guilt of the woman you loved ; 
and you w^:e too great a coward to investigate 
the evidence upon which your suspicions were 
built. Had I been wise enough, instead of blindly 
questioning this poor bewildered girl, to tell her 




vmMis, A cLOtri). 217 

plainly what it was fliat I suspected, the incon- 
trovertible truth would have flashed out of her 
ft^gry ©y^s, and one indignant denial would have 
told toe how basely I had wronged her. You 
shall not make the toistake that I made, John. 
You must go frankly and fearlessly to the wife 
you love, tell her of thd suspicion that over-clouds 
her fame, and implore her to help you to the 
uttermost of her power in unravelling the mystery 
of this man's death. The assassin mitgt be found, 
John; for so long hs he remains undiscovered, 
you and your wife will be the victims of every 
penny-a-liner who finds himself at a loss for a 
paragraph." 

**Yes," Mr. Mellish answered bitterly, «thd 
papers have been hard at it already ; and there's 
been a fellow hanging about the place for the 
last few days whom I've had a very strong incli- 
tiation to thrask Some reporter, I suppose, com6 
to pick up information." 

" 1 suppose so," Talbot answered thoughtfully ; 
" what sort of a toan was he ?" 

" A decent-lookiDg fellow enough ; but a Lon- 
doner, I fancy, and — stay T exclaimed John 
suddenly, " there's a man coming towards us from 



218 AUROBA FLOYD. 

the tumstfle, and unless I'm considerably mistaken, 
it's the very fellow." 

Mr. Mellish was right 

The wood was free to any foot-passenger who 
pleased to avail himself of the pleasant shelter of 
spreading beeches, and the smooth carpet of mossy 
turf, rather than tramp wearily upon the dusty 
highway. 

The stranger advancing from the turnstile was 
a decent-looking person, dressed in dark tight- 
fitting clothes, and making no unnecessary or 
ostentatious display of linen, for his coat was but- 
toned tightly to the chin. He looked at Talbot 
and John as he passed them, — not insolently, or 
even inquisitively, but with one brightly rapid 
and searching glance, which seemed to take in the 
most minute details in the appearance of both 
gentlemen. Then, walking on a few paces, he 
stopped and looked thoughtfully at the pond, and 
the bank above it. 

** This is the place, I think, gentlemen ?*' he 
said, in a frank and rather free-and-easy manner. 

Talbot returned his look with interest 

" If you mean the place where the murder was 
committed, it is," he said. 




UNDER A CLOUD. 219 

"Ah, I understood so," answered the stranger, 
by no means abashed. 

He looked at the bank, regarding it, now from 
one point, now from another, like some skilful 
upholsterer taking the measure of a piece of fur- 
niture. Then walking slowly round the pond, he 
seemed to plumb the depth of the stagnant water 
with his small gray eyes. 

Talbot Bulstrode watched the man as he took 
this mental photograph of the place. There was 
a business-like composure in his manner, which 
was entirely different to the eager curiosity of a 
scandalmonger and a busybody, 

Mr. Bulstrode rose £is the man walked away, 
and went slowly after him, 

" Stop where you are, John," he said, as he left 
his companion ; " Pll find out who this fellow is." 

He walked on, and overtook the stranger at 
about a hundred yards from the pond. 

" I want to have a few words with you before 
you leave the Park, my friend," he said quietly ; 
" unless I'm very much mistaken, you are a mem- 
ber of the detective police, and come here with 
credentials from Scotland Yard." 

The man shook his head, with a quiet smile. 



220 AUBOSA ¥U>YJ}. 

^Fm not obliged to teQ eyerybodj mj bnsi- 
^lesB," he answered coolly; ^tfais fixitpath is a 
public tfaofongfafiue, I beUeve T^ 

** Listen to me, my good feDow," said Mr. Bol- 
sbode. '^Itmayserveyonr purpose to beat about 
the bosh; but I haye no reason to do so, and 
therefore may as wdl come to the pcnnt at once. 
If yon are sent here for the porpose of discoyering 
file mnrderer of James GonyeiSy yon can be more 
ivelcome to no one than to the master of fliat 
house.'' 

He pointed to the Grothic chinmeys as he spok^. 

** If those who employ yon haye promised yon 
a liberal reward, Mr. Mellii^ will willin^y treble 
the amount they may haye offered yon. lie would 
not giye you cause to complain of his liberality, 
should you succeed in accomplishing the purpose 
of your errand. If you think you will gain any- 
thing by undeihand measures, and by keeping 
yourself dark, you loeyery much mistaken ; for no 
one can be better able or more willing to giye yoa 
assistance in tUs than Mr. and Mrs. Mellidi.'* 

The detectiye — for he had tacitly admitted the 
fiict of his profe8Bkm^-4ooked doubtfully at Talbot 
Bobtrode. 



n^ 



UNDER A CLOUt). 221 

''You're a lawyer, I suppose?" he said. 

" I am Mr. Talbot Bulstrode, member of Pen- 
ruthy, and the husband of Mrs. Mellish's first 
cousin." 

The detective bowed. 

"My name is Joseph Grimstone, of Scotland 
Yard and Bali's Pond," he said ; " and I certainly 
see no objection to our working together. If 
Mr. Mellish is prepared to act on the square, I'm 
prepared to act with him, and to accept any re- 
ward his generosity may offer. But if he or any 
friend of his wants to hoodwink Joseph Grimstone, 
he'd better think twice about the game before he 
tries it on ; that's aUL" 

Mr. Bulstrode took no notice of this threat, but 
looked at his watch before replying to the detec- 
tive. 

*' It's a quarter-past six," he said. " Mr. Mellish 
dines at seven. Can you call at the house, say at 
nine, this evening ? You shall then have all the 
assistance it is in our power to give you." 

** Certainly, sir. At nine tiiis evening." 

" We shall be prepared to receive you* Good 
afternoon." 

Mr. Grimstone touched his hat> and strolled 



222 AUBOBA FLOTD. 

quietly away under the shadow of the beeches, 
while Talbot Bulstrode walked back to rejoin his 
friend. 

It may be as well to take this opportunity of 
stating the reason of the deteetiye's early appear- 
ance at Mellish Park. Upon the day of the in- 
qnesty and consequently the next day but one after 
the murder, two anonymous letters, worded in the 
same manner, and written by the same hand, were 
received respectiyely by the head of the Doncaster 
constabulary and by the chief of the Scotland^Yard 
detectire confederacy. 

These anonymous communications — ^written in a 
hand which, in spite of aU attempt at disguise, still 
retained the spidery peculiarities of feminine cali- 
graphy — ^pointed, by a sinuous and inductiye pro- 
cess of reasoning, at Aurora Mellish as the mur- 
deress of James Conyers. I need scarcely say that 
the writer was no other than Mrs. PowelL She 
has disappeared for erer from my story, and I hare 
no wish to blacken a character which can ill afford 
to be slandered. The ensign's widow actually 
belie Ted in the guilt of her beautiful patroness. It 
is so easy for an envious woman to belieye horrible 
things of the more prosperous sister whom she hates. 



223 



CHAPTER XI. 

REUNION. 

"We are on the verge of a precipice,** Talbot 
Bulstrode thought, as he prepared for dinner in 
the comfortable dressing-room allotted to him at 
Mellish, — "we are on the verge of a precipice, 
and nothing but a bold grapple with the worst can 
save us. Any reticence, any attempt at keeping 
back suspicious facts, or hushing up awkward coin- 
cidences would be fatal to us. If John had made 
away with this pistol with which the deed was 
done, he would have inevitably fixed a most fear- 
ful suspicion upon his wife. Thank God I came 
here to-day ! We inust look matters straight in 
the face, and our first step must be to secure 
Aurora's help. So long as she is silent as to her 
share in the events of that day and night, there is 
a link missing in the chain, and we are all at sea. 



224 AURORA FLOYD. 

John must speak to her to-night; or perhaps it 
will be better for me to speak," 

Mr. Bulstrode went down to the drawing-room, 
where he found his friend pacing up and down, 
solitary and wretched. 

" The ladies are going to dine up-stairs," said 
Mr. Mellish, as Talbot joined him. " I have just 
had a message to say so. Why does she avoid 
me, Talbot? why does my wife avoid me like 
this ? We have scarcely spoken to each other for 
days." 

"Shall I tell you why, you foolish John?" 
answered Mr. Bulstrode. ** Your wife avoids you 
because you have chosen to alienate yourself from 
her, and because she thinks, poor girl, that she 
has lost your affection. She fancies that the dis- 
covery of her first marriage has caused a revulsion 
of feeling, and that you no longer love her." 

"No longer love her!" cried John. "0 my 
God ! she ought to know that, if I could give my 
life for her fifty times over, I would do it, to save 
her one pang. I would do it, so help me, Heaven, 
though she were the guiltiest wretch that had ever 
crawled the earth !" 

"But no one asks you to do anything of the 




REUNION. 225 

kind," said Mr. Buktrode. "You are only re- 
quested to be reasonable and patient, to put a 
proper trust in Providence, and to be guided by 
people who are rather less impetuous than your 
ungovernable self." 

"I will do what you like, Talbot; I will do 
what you like." 

Mr. MeUish pressed his friend's hand. Had he 
ever thought^ when he had seen Talbot an accepted 
lover at Felden, and had hated him with a savage 
and wild Indian-like fury, that he would come to 
be thus humbly grateful to him; thus pitifiilly 
dependent upon his superior wisdom ? He wrung 
the young politician's hand, and promised to be as 
submissive as a chHd beneath his guidance. 

In compliance, therefore, with Talbot's com- 
mands, he ate a few morsels of fish, and drank a 
couple of glasses of sherry ; and having thus gone 
through a show of dining, he went with Mr. Bul- 
strode to seek Aurora. 

She was sitting with her cousin in the morning- 
room, looking terribly pale in the dim dusk of the 
August evening, — pale and shadowy in her loose 
white muslin dress. She had only lately risen 
after a long feverish slumber, and had pretended 



226 AUBORA FLOYD. 

to dine out of courtesy to her guest Lucy had 
tried in vain to comfort her cousin. This pas- 
sionate, impetuous, spoiled child of fortune and 
aflFection refused all consolation, crying out again 
and again that she had lost her husband's love, 
and that there was nothing left for her upon 
eartL 

But in the very midst of one of these despond- 
ent speeches, she sprang up from her seat, erect 
and trembling, with her parted lips quivering and 
her dark eyes dilated, startled by the sound of a 
familiar step, which within the last few days had 
been seldom heard in the corridor outside her room. 
She tried to speak, but her voice failed her ; and 
in another moment the door had been dashed 
open by a strong hand, and her husband stood 
in the room, holding out his arms and calling to 
her. 

" Aurora ! Aurora ! my own dear love, my own 
poor darling !'* 

She was folded to his breast before she knew 
that Talbot Bulstrode stood close behind him. 

"My own darling," John said, "my own 
dearest, you cannot tell how cruelly I Lave 
wronged you. But, oh, my love, the wrong has 



1^ 



KEUNION. 227 

brought unendurable torture with it. My poor 

guiltless girl! how could I — ^how could I 

But I was mad, and it was only when Talbot ^" 

Aurora lifted her head from her husband's 
breast and looked wonderingly into his face, 
utterly unable to guess the meaning of these 
broken sentences. 

Talbot laid his hand upon his friend's shoulder. 
" You will frighten your wife if you go on in this 
manner, John," he said quietly. " You mustn't 
take any notice of his agitation, my dear Mrs. 
MellisL There is no cause, believe me, for all 
this outcry. Will you sit down by Lucy and 
compose yourself? It is eight o'clock, and 
between this and nine we have some serious 
business to settle." 

" Serious business I" repeated Aurora vaguely. 
She was intoxicated by her sudden happiness. 
She had no wish to ask any explanation of the 
mystery of the past few days. It was all over, 
and her faithful husband loved her as devotedly 
and tenderly as ever. How could she wish to 
know more than this ? 

She seated herself at Lucy's side, in obedience 
to Talbot ; but she still held her husband's hand 

VOL. IIL B 



228 AURORA FLOYD. 

she still looked in his face, for the moment most 
sapremely nnconsdous that the scheme of crea- 
tion inclnded anything beyond this stalwart York- 
fihireman. 

Talbot Bulstrode lighted the lamp npon 
Aurora's writing-table, — a shaded lamp, which 
only dimly illuminated the twilight room, — and 
then, taking his seat near it^ said gravely — 

^My dear Mrs. Mellish, I shall be compelled to 
say something which I fear may inflict a terriUe 
shock upon you. But this is no time for reserra- 
tion ; scarcely a time for ordinary delicacy. Will 
you trust in the love and friendship of those who 
are around you, and promise to bear this new 
trial bravely? I believe and hope that it will 
be a very brief one." 

. Aurora looked wonderingly at her husband, not 
at Talbot 

" A new trial ?" she said inquiringly. 

**Tou know that the murderer of James Con- 
yers has not yet been discovered?" said Mr. 
Bulstrode* 

" Yes, yes ; but what of that ?" 

" My dear Mrs. Mellish, my dear Aurora ! the 
world is apt to take a morbid delight in horrible 




REUNION. 229 

ideas. There are some people who think that you 
^are guilty of this crime !" 

She rose suddenly from her low seat, and 
turned her face towards the lamplight, with a look 
of such blank amazement, such utter wonder and 
bewilderment^ that had Talbot Bulstrode until 
that moment believed her guilty, he must thence- 
forth and for ever have been firmly convinced of 
her innocence. 

" // " she repeated. 

Then turning to her husband, with a sudden 
alteration in her £EU)e, that blank amazement 
changing to a look of sorrow, mingled with re-? 
proachM wonder, she said in a low voice — 

^ Y(M thought this of me, John ; you thought 
this!" 

John Hellish bowed his head before her. 

" I did, my dear," he murmured — " Grod forgive 
me for my wicked folly — ^I did think this, Aurora. 
But I pitied you, and was sorry for you, my own 
dear love ; and when I thought it most, I would 
have died to save you from shame or sorrow. My 
love has never changed, Aurora; my love has 
never changed,** 

B 2 



230 AURORA FLOYD. 

She gave him her hand^ and once more re- 
sumed her seat She sat for some moments in ' 
silence, as if trying to collect her thoughts, 
and to understand the meaning of this strange 
scene. 

"Who suspects me of this crime?" she said 
presently. "Has any one else suspiected me 2 
Any one berides-my husband?' 

" I can scarcely tell you, my dear Mrs. MeUish," 
answered Talbot ; " when an event of this kind 
takes place, it is very difficult to say who may 
or may not be suspected. Different persons set 
up different theories : one man writes to a news- 
paper to declare that, in his opinion, the crime 
was committed by some person within the house ; 
another man writes as positively to another paper, 
asserting that the murderer was undoubtedly a 
stranger. Each man brings forward a mass of 
suppositious evidence in favour of his own argu- 
ment, and each thinks a great deal more of prov- 
ing his own cleverness than of furthering the 
ends of justice. No shadow of slander must rest 
upon this house, or upon those who live in it 
It is necessary, therefore, imperatively necessary, 
that the real murderer should be found. A 




REUNION. 231 

London detective is already at work."* These men 
are very clever; some insignificant circumstance, 
forgotten by those most interested in discovering 
the truth, would often be enough to set a detective 
on the right track. This man is coming here 
at nine o'clock ; and we are to give him all the 
assistance we can. Will you help us, Aurora ?" ^ 

« Help you ! How ?" 

"By telling us all you know of the night of 
the murder. Why were you in the wood that 
night r 

'^I was there to meet the dead man." 

**For what purpose ?* 

Aurora was silent for some moments, and 
then looking up with a bold, half'defiant glance, 
she said suddenly — 

" Talbot Bulstrode, before you blame or despise 
me, remember how the tie that bound me to 
this man had been broken. The law would 
have set me free from him, if I had been brave 
enough to appeal to the law ; and was I to suffer 
aU my life because of the mistake I had made in 
not demanding a release from the man whose 
gross infideUty entitled me to be divorced from 
him? Heaven knows I had borne with him 



232 AURORA FLOTD. 

patiently enough. I had endured his volgarity, 
his insolence, his presumption; I had gone 
penniless while he spent my fEither's money in a 
gambling-booth on a race-course, and dinnerless 
while he drank champagne with cheats and 
reprobates. Bemember this, when you blame me 
most. I went into the wood that night to meet 
him for the last time upon this earth. He had 
promised me that he would emigrate to Australia 
upon the payment of a certain sum of money." 

" And you went that night to pay it to him ?' 
cried Talbot eagerly. 

"I did. He was insolent, as he always was; 
for he hated me for haying didbovered that which 
shut him out from all claim upon my fortune. 
He hated himself for his folly in not haying played 
his cards better. Angry words passed between us ; 
but it ended ui bis declanng his intention of start- 
ing for Liverpool early the next momiog, and — '' 

" You gave him the mcmey ?" 

"Yes." 

" But teU me, — ^tell me, Aurora," cried Talbot, 
almost too eager to find words, " how long had you 
left him when you heard the report of the pistol ?' 

^ Not more than ten minutes." 




REUNION. 2SS 

"John Mellish," exclaimed Mr. Bulstrode, 
" was there any money found upon the person of 
the murdered man ?" 

"No— yes; I beKeve there was a little silver," 
Mr. Mellish answered vaguely. 

" A little silver !" cried Talbot contemptuously. 
" Aurora, what was the sum you gave James Con- 
yers upon the night of his death ?'* 

" Two thousand pounds." 

" In a cheque ?' 

" No ; in notes." 

"And that money has pever been heard of 
since ?" 

No ; John Mellish declared that he had never 
heard of it. 

" Thank God !" exclaimed Mr. Bulstrode ; " we 
shall find the murderer." 

" What do you mean ?' asked John. 

"Whoever killed James Conyers, killed him in 
order to rob him of the money that he had upon 
him at the time of his death." 

" But who could have known of the money ?" 
asked Aurora. 

" Anybody ; the pathway through the wood is 
a public thoroughfare. Tour conversation with 



234 AUBORA FLOTD. 

fhe murdered man may haye been OYeilieanL 
Yon talked abont the monej, I soppoee?^ 

*'Yea" 

*'T3iank God, thank God! Ask yonr wife's 
pardon tor the cmel wrong yon ha^e done her, 
John, and then come downstairs with me. It's 
past nine, and I dare say Mr. Grimstone is wait- 
ing for ns. Bat stay, — one word, Aurora. The 
pistol with which this man was killed was taken 
from this honse, from John's room. Did yon 
know that ?" 

^No; how shonid I know it?^ Mrs. Mellish 
asked naively. 

^^ That fact is against the theory of the mnrder 
haying been committed by a stranger. Is there 
any one of the servants whom yon conld suspect of 
snch a crime, John ?" 

"No,** answered Mr. Mellish decisively; "not 



one.^ 



"And yet the person who committed the 
murder must have been the person who stole your 
pistol. You, John, declare that very pistol to 
have been in your possession upon the morning 
before the murder." 
" Most certainly.' 



w 



REUNION. 285 

"Tou put John's guns back into their places 
upon that morning, Aurora," said Mr. Bulstrode ; 
" do you remember seeing that particular pistol ?" 

"No," Mrs. Mellish answered; "I should not 
have known it from the others." 

*' You did not find any of the servants in the 
room that morning ?" 

** Oh, no," Aurora answered immediately ; 
"Mrs. Powell came into the room while I was 
there. She was always following me about ; and 
I suppose she had heard me talking to " 

"^Talking to whom ?" 

" To James Conyers's hanger-on and messenger, 
Stephen Hargraves — the * Softy,' as they call him." 

** 1 ou were talking to him ? Then this Stephen 
Hargraves was in the room that morning?" 

"Yes ; he brought me a message from the mur- 
dered man, and took back my answer." 

" Was he alone in the room ?' 

*'Yes; I found him there when I went in, 
expecting to find John. I dislike the man, — ^un- 
justly, perhaps ; for he is a poor, half-witted crea- 
ture, who I dare say scarcely knows right from 
wrong ; and I was angry at seeing him. He must 
have come in through the window." 



236 AURORA FLOYD. 

A servant entered the room at this moment. 
He came to say that Mr. Grimstone had been 
waiting below for some time, and was anxious to 
see Mr. Bolstrode. 

Talbot and John went down-stairs toother. 
They found Mr. Joseph Grimstone sittiog at a 
table in a comfortable room that had lately been 
sacred to Mrs. Powell, with the shaded lamp 
drawn dose to his elbow, and a greasy little 
memorandum-book open before him. He was 
thoughtfully employed making notes in this memo* 
randum-book with a stumpy morsel of lead-pencil 
— ^when do these sort of people begin their 
pencils, and how is it that they always seem to 
have arrived at the stump? — ^when the two 
gentlemen entered. 

John Mellish leaned against the mantel-piece, 
and covered his fece with his hand. For any 
practical purpose, he might as well have been 
ia his own room. He knew nothing of Talbot's 
reason for this interview with the detective officer. 
He had no shadowy idea, no growing suspicion 
shaping itself slowly out of the confusion and 
obscurity, of the identity of the murderer. He 
only knew that his Aurora was innocent ; that die 



REUNION. 237 

had indignantly refuted his base suspicion; and 
that he had seen the truth, radiant as the light of 
inspiration, shining out of her beautiful face. 

Mr. Bulstrode rang, and ordered a bottle of 
sherry for the delectation of the detective ; and 
then, in a careful and business-like manner, he 
recited all that he had been able to discover upon 
the subject of the murder. Joseph Grimstone 
listened very quietly, following Talbot Bulstrode 
with a shining track of lead-pencil hieroglyphics 
over the greasy paper, just as Tom Thumb strewed 
crumbs of bread in the forest-pathway, with a view 
to his homeward guidance. The detective only 
looked up now and then to drink a glass of sherry, 
and smack his lips with the qxiiet approval of a 
connoisseur. When Talbot had told all that he 
had to tell, Mr. Grimstone thrust the memo- 
randum-book into a very tight breast-pocket, and 
taking his hat from under the chair upon which he 
had been seated, prepared to depart. 

^^ If this information about the money is quite 
correct, sir," he said, " I think I can see my way 
through the affair; that is^ if we can have the 
numbers of the notes. I can't stir a p^ without 
the numbers of the notes." 



238 AURORA FLOYD. 

Talbot's countenance felL Here was a death- 
blow. Was it likely that Aurora, that impetuous 
and unbusiness-like girl, had^taken the numbers 
of the notes, which, in utter scorn and loathing, 
she had flung as a last bribe to the man she 
hated? 

« rU go and make inquiries of Mrs. Mellish," he 
said ; " but I fear it is scarcely likely I shall get 
the information you want" 

He left the room ; but five minutes afterwards 
returned triumphant. 

** Mrs. MelUsh had the notes from her father," 
he said. " Mr. Floyd took a list of the numbers 
before he gave his daughter the money." 

" Then if you'll be so good as to drop Mr. Floyd 
a line, asking for that list by return of post, I 
shall know how to act," replied the detective. 
"I haven't been idle this afternoon, gentlemen, 
any more than you. I went back after I parted 
with you, Mr. Bulstrode, and had another look at 
the pond. I found something to pay me for my 
trouble." 

He took from his waistcoat-pocked a small object, 
which he held between his finger and thumb. 

Talbot and John looked intently at this dingy 




REUNION. 239 

object, but could make nothing out of it. It 
seelned to be a mere disc of rusty metal. 

" It's neither more nor less than a brass button," ' 
the detective said, with a smile of quiet superi- 
ority; *' maker's name, Crosby, Birmingham. 
There's marks upon it which seem uncommon like 
blood ; and unless I'm very much mistaken, it'll 
be foimd to fit pretty correct into the barrel of your 
pistol, Mr. Mellish. So what we've got to do is to 
find a gentleman wearin', or havin' in his posses- 
sion, a waistcoat with buttons by Crosby, Birming- 
ham, and one button missin' ; and if we happen to 
find the same gentleman changin' one of the notes 
that Mr. Floyd took the numbers of, I don't think 
we shall be very far off layin' our hands on the 
man we want" 

With which oracular speech Mr. Grimstone 
departed, charged with a commission to proceed 
forthwith to Doncaster, to order the immediate 
printing and circulating of a hundred bills, • 
offering a reward of 200t for such information as 
would lead to the apprehension of the murderer of 
James Conyers. This reward to be given by Mr. 
Mellish, and to be over and above any reward 
offered by the Government. 



240 AURORA FLOYD. 



CHAPTER XII. 

THE BRASS BUTTON BY CROSBY, BIRMINGHAM, 

Mb. Matthew Harrison and Captain Prodder 
were both accommodated with suitable entertain- 
ment at the sign of the Crooked Eabbit^ but 
while the dog-fancier appeared to have ample 
employment in the neighbourhood, — employment 
of a mysterious nature, which kept him on the 
tramp all day, and sent him home at sunset, tired 
and hungry, to his hostehy,— the sailor, having 
nothing whatever to do, and a great burden of 
care upon his mind, jGound the time hang very 
heavily upon his hands; although, being natu- 
rally of a social and genial temper, he made him- 
self'ver, ..eh a. hoi h. J«».^ ...^ 
From Mr. Harrison the captain obtained much 
infDrmation respecting the secret of all the sorrow 
that had befallen his niece. The dog-fancier had 




THE BRASS BUTTON BY CROSBY, BIRMINGHAM. 241 

known James Conyers from his boyhood; had 
known his father, the "swell" coachman of a 
Brighton Highflyer, or Sky-rocket, or Electric, 
and the associate of the noblemen and gentlemen 
of that princely era, in which it was the right 
thing for the yonthful aristocracy to imitate the 
maimers of Mr. Samuel Weller, senior. Matthew 
Harrison had known the trainer in his brief and 
stormy married life, and had accompanied Aurora's 
first husband as a humble dependent and hanger- 
pn in that foreign travel which had been paid for 
out of Archibald Floyd's cheque-book. The 
honest captain's blood boiled as he heard that 
shameful story of treachery and extortion practised 
upon an ignorant school-girL Oh, that he had 
been by to avenge those outrages upon the child 
of the dark-eyed sister he had loved 1 His rage 
against the undiscovered murderer of the dead 
man was redoubled when he remembered how 
comfortably James Conyers had escaped frxtm his 
vengeance. 

Mr. Stephen Hargraves, the " Softy," took good 
care to keep out of the way of the Crooked 
Babbit, having no wish to encounter Captain 
Prodder a second time ; but he still hung about 



242 AURORA FLOTD. 

the town of Doncaster, where he had a lodging up 
a wretched alley, hidden away behind one of the 
back streets, — a species of lair common to every 
large town, only to be found by the inhabitants of 
the locality. 

The " Softy " had been bom and bred, and had 
lived his life, in such a narrow radius, that the 
uprooting of one of the oaks in Mellish Park could 
scarcely be a slower or more painful operation 
than the severing of those ties of custom which 
held the boorish hanger^n to the neighbourhood 
of the household in which he had so long been an 
inmate. But now that his occupation at Mellish 
Park was for ever gone, and his patron, the 
trainer, dead, he was alone in the world, and had 
need to look out for a fresh situation. 

But he seemed rather slow to do this. He was 
not a very prepossessing person, it must be re- 
membered, and there were not very many services 
for which he was fitted. Although upwards of 
forty years of age, he was generally rather loosely 
described as a yoimg man who understood all 
about horses; and this qualification was usually 
sufficient to procure for any individual whatever 
some kind of employment in the neighbourhood 




THS BBASS BUTTON BY CBOSBY, BIBMINaHAM. 243 

of Doncaster. The "Softy" seemed, howeyer, 
rather to keep aloof from the people who knew 
and could haye recommended him; and when 
asked why he did not seek a situation, gaye 
eyasiye answers, and muttered something to the 
effect that he had sayed a little bit of money at 
Mellish Park, and had no need to come upon 
the parish if he was out of work for a week or 
two. 

John Mellish was so well known as a generous 
paymaster, that this was a matter of surprise to no 
one. Steeye Hargrayes had no doubt had pretty 
pickings in that liberal household. So the " Softy " 
went his way unquestioned, hanging about the 
town in a lounging, uncomfortable manner, sitting' 
in some public-house taproom half the day and 
night, drinking his meagre liquor in a sullen and 
imsocial style peculiar to himself, and consorting 
with no one. 

He made his appearance at the railway station 
one day, and groped helplessly through all the 
time-tables pasted against the walls : but he could 
make nothing of them unaided, and was at last 
compelled to appeal to a good-tempered-looking 
official who was busy on the platform. 

yoL. nL s 



244 ATJBOSA FLOTD. 

" I want th' Liverpool trayims," he said, " and 
I can find naught about 'em here." 

The official knew Mr. EargrayeSy and looked at 
T?iTn with a stare of open wonder. 

"My word, Steeve," he said laughing, **what 
takes you to Liverpool? I thought you'd never 
been further than York in your life ?" 

"Maybe I haven't," the "Softy" answered 
sulkily ; " but that's no reason I shouldn't go now, 

I've heard of a situation at Liverpool as I think'll 
suit me." 

" Not better than the place you had with Mr. 
Mellish." 

"Perhaps not," muttered Mr. Hargraves, with 
a frown darkening over his ugly face; "but 
Mellish Park be no pleace for me now, and amt 
been for a long time past." 

The railway official laughed. 

The story of Aurora's chastisement of the half- 
witted groom was pretty well knowil amongst the 
townspeople of Doncaster ; and I am sorry to say 
there were very few members of that sporting 
community who did not admire the mistress of 
Mellish Park something more by reason of this 
little incident in her history. 




THE BBASS BUTTON BY Q^OSBT, BIRMINGHAM. 245 

Mr. Hargraves received the desired informaticm 
about the railway route between Doncaster and 
Liverpool, and then left the station. 

A shabby-looking little man, who had also been 
inaMng some inquiries of the same official who 
had talked to the " Softy," and had consequently 
heard the above brief dialogue, followed Stephen 
Hargraves from the station into the town. Indeed, 
had it not been that the " Softy " was unusually 
slow of perception, he might have discoveried that 
upon this particular day the same shabby-looking 
little man generally happened to be hanging 
about any and every place to which he, Mr. Har- 
graves, betook himself. But the cast-ofif retainer 
of Mellish Park did not trouble himself with any 
such misgivings. His narrow intellect, never 
wide enough to take in many subjects at a time, 
was fully absorbed by other considerations; and 
he loitered about with a gloomy and preoccupied 
expression in his face, that by no means enhanced 
his personal 'attractions. 

It is not to be supposed that Mr. Joseph Grim- 
stone let the grass grow under his feet after his 
interview with John Mellish and Talbot Bulstrode. 
He had heard enough to make his course pretty 

s 2 



246 AXJBOUA, TWYD. 

clear to \nm, and he went to work quietly and 
sagadonsly to win the reward offered to him. 

There was not a tailor's shop in Doncaster or its 
yidnitj into which the detective did not make 
his way. There was not a garment confectiannee 
by any of the ciyil purveyors upon whom he 
intruded that Mr. Grimstone did not examine; 
not a drawer of odds and ends which he did not 
ransack, in his search for buttons by "Crosby, 
maker, Birmingham." But for a long time he 
made his inquisition in vain. Before the day suc- 
ceeding that of Talbot's arrival at Mellish Park 
was over, the detective had visited every tailor or 
clothier in the neighbourhood of the racing me- 
tropolis of the north, but no traces of " Crosby, 
maker, Birmingham," had he been able to find. 
Brass waistcoat-buttons are not particularly affected 
by the leaders of the fashion in the present day, 
and Mr. Grimstone found almost every variety of 
fastening upon the waistcoats he examined, except 
that one special style of button, a specimen of 
which, out of shape and blood-stained, he carried 
deep in his trousers-pocket 

He was returning to the inn at which he had 
taken up his abode, and where he was supposed to 




THE BBASS BUTTON BY CBOSBY^ BIBMINaHAM. 247 

be a trayeller in the Glenfield starch and sugar- 
plum line^ tired and worn out with a day's useless 
work, when he was attracted by the appearance of 
some ready-made garments gracefully festooned 
about the door of a Doncaster pawnbroker, who 
exhibited silver teaspoons, oil-paintings, boots and 
shoes, dropsical watches, doubtful rings, and rem- 
nants of silk and satin, in his artistically-arranged 
window. 

Mr. Grimstone stopped short before the money- 
lender's portal. 

"I won't be beaten," he muttered between his 
teeth. **If this man has got any weskits, I'll 
have a look at 'em." 

He lotmged into the shop in a leisurely manner, 
and asked the proprietor of the establishment if he 
had auything cheap in the way of fancy waistcoats. 

Of course the proprietor had everything de- 
sirable in that way, and from a kind of grove or 
arbour of all manner of dry goods at the back of 
the shop, he brought out half a dozen brown-paper 
parcels, the contents of which he exhibited to Mr. 
Joseph Grimstone. 

The detective looked at a great many waist- 
coats, but with no satisfactory result. 



248 AUBQBA TVOflD. 

^* Yoa baren't got anjtfaing with bfss buttons, 
I Mippose r be inquired at last 

The propfietor shook his head reAectivelT. 

^litBm battona aint much worn now-a-dayg," 
be said; ^but 111 hty IVe got the rerj thing yoa 
want, now I come to think of it I got 'em an 
uncommon bargain from a trayeller for a Bir- 
mingham house, who was here at the Septemb^ 
mooting three years ago, and lost a hatfol of 
money upon Underhand, and left a lot of things 
with me, in order to make up what he wanted.** 

Mr. Grimstone pricked up his ears at the sound 
of " liinningham." The pawnbroker retired once 
moro to tlie mysterious caverns at the back of his 
sUoj), and after a considerable search succeeded in 
finding what he wanted. He brought another 
brown paper parcel to the counter, turned the 
flaming gas a little higher, and exhibited a heap 
of very gaudy and vulgar- looking waistcoats, evi- 
dently of that species of manufacture which is 
generally called slop-work. 

"These are the goods," he said; "and very 
tasty and lively things they are, too. I had a 
doz(3U of 'em ; and I've only got these five left" 

Mr. (i rims tone had taken up a waistcoat of a 




THE BRASS BUTTON BT OBOSBY, BIBMmaHAM. 249 

flaming check pattern, and was examining it by 
the light of the gas. 

Yes; the purpose of his day's work was ac* 
complished at last The back of the brass bnttons 
bore the name of Crosby, Birmingham. 

*' You've only got five left out of the dozen,** 
said the detective ; "then you've sold seven ?* 

^^Ihave." 

" Can you remember who you sold 'em to ?* 

The pawnbroker scratched his head thought- 
fiiUy. 

" I think I must have sold 'em aU to the mem 
at the works," he said. ** They take their wages 
once a fortnight ; and there's some of 'em drop in 
here every other Saturday night to buy something 
or other, or to take something out of pledge. I 
know I sold four or five that way." 

" But can you remember seUing one of them 
to anybody else?" asked the detective. "I'm 
not asking out of curiosity; and I don't mind 
standing something handsome by-and-by, if you 
can give me the information I want. Think it 
over, now, and take your time. You couldn't 
have sold 'em all seven to the men from the 
works." 



250 ' AUBOBA rWYD. 

** No ; I didn't^** answered the pawnbroker after 
a pause. ** I remember now, I sold one of them 
I— a £10107 sprig on a purple groond — ^to Josephs 
the baker, in the next street ; and I sold another 
— ^a yellow stripe on a brown ground — ^to the 
head-gardener at Hellish Park." 

Mr. Joseph Grimstone's face flashed hot and 
red. His day's work had not been wasted. He 
was bringing the buttons by Crosby of Birming- 
ham yery near to where he wanted to bring them. 

** You can teU me the gardener's name I sup- 
pose ?" he said to the pawnbroker. 

^^Yes; his name's Dawson. He belongs to 
Doncaster, and he and I were boys together. I 
should not have remembered selling him the 
waistcoat, perhaps, for it's nigh upon a year and a 
half ago; only he stopped and had a chat with me 
and my missis the night he bought it." 

Mr. Grimstone did not linger much longer in 
the shop. His interest in the waistcoats was 
evidently departed. He bought a couple of 
second-hand silk handkerchiefs out of civility, no 
doubt, and then bade the pawnbroker good-night 

It was nearly nine o'clock; but the detective 
only stopped at his inn long enough to eat about 




THE BBASS BUTTON BY GBOSBY^ BIBMINaHAlL 251 

a pound and a quarter of bee&teak, and drink a 
pint of ale, after which brief refreshment he 
started for Hellish Park on foot. It was the 
principle of his life to ayoid observation, and he 
preferred the fatigue of a long and lonely walk to 
the risks contingent upon hiring a vehicle to con- 
vey him to his destination. 

Talbot and John had been waiting hopefully all 
the day for the detective's coming, and welcomed 
him very heartily when he appeared, between ten 
and eleven. He was shown into John's own room 
this evening ; for the two gentlemen were sitting 
there smoking and talking after Aurora and Lucy 
had gone to bed. Mrs. Hellish had good need 
of rest, and could sleep peaceftdly now ; for the 
dark shadow between her and her husband had 
gone for ever, and she could not fear any peril, 
any sorrow, now that she knew herself to be 
secure of his leva John looked up eagerly as Hr. 
Grimstone followed the servant into the room; 
but a warning look from Talbot Bulstrode checked 
his impetuosity, and he waited till the door was 
shut before he spoke. 
. " Now, then, Grimstone," he said ; "what news ?" 

" Well, sir, IVe had a hard day's work," the 



252 AUBOBA VLOYD. 

detectire answered gravelj, ** and perhaps neither 
of yon gentlemen — ^not being professional — ^wonld 
think much of what I've done ; bat for all that, I 
believe I'm bringin^ it home, sir ; I belieye Fm 
bringin' it home." 

"Thank God for that!" mnrmnred Talbot 
Bulstrode, reverently. 

He had thrown away his cigar, and was stand- 
ing by the flreplace, with his arm resting upon 
the angle of the mantel-piece. 

"You've got a gardener by the name of 
Dawson in your service, Mr. Hellish ?' said the 
detective. 

"I have," answered John: "but, Lord have 
mercy upon us ! you don't mean to say you think 
it's him? Dawson's as good a fellow as ever 
breathed." 

" I don't say I think it's any one as yet, sir," 
Mr. Grimstone answered sententiously ; "but 
when a man as had two thousand pound upon 
him in bank-notes is found in a wood shot through 
the heart, and the notes missin' — ^the wood bein' 
froo to anybody as chose to walk in it— it's a 
pretty open case for suspicion. I should like to 
see this man Dawson, if it's convenient." 




THE BRASS BUTTON BY GBO6BT9 BIEMINaHAM. 253 

« Tonight r asked John. 

" Yes : the sooner the better. The less delay 
there is in this sort of business, the more satisfac- 
tory for all parties, with the exception of the 
party that's wanted," added the detective. 

*^ril send for Dawson, then," answered Mr. 
Mellish ; " but I erpect he'U have gone to bed by 
this time." 

^^ Then he can but get up again, if he has, sir," 
Mr. Grimstone said poKtely. "I've set my 
heart upon seeing him to-night, if it's all the 
same to you." 

It is not to be supposed that John MeUish was 
likely to object to any arrangement which might 
hasten, if by but a moment's time, the hour of 
the discovery for which he so ardently prayed. 
He went straight off to the servants' hall to make 
inquiries for the gardener,"and left Talbot Bulstrode 
and the detective together. 

*^ There aint nothing turned up here, I sup- 
pose, sir," said Joseph Grimstone, addressing Mr. 
Bulstrode, ** as will be of any help to us ?" 

"Yes," Talbot answered. "We have got the 
numbers of the notes which Mrs. Mellish gave the 
murdered man. I telegraphed to Mr. Floyd's 



254 AUBOBA FLOYD. 

country house, and he arrived here himself only an 
hour ago, bringing the list of the notes with him." 

''And an uncommon plucky thing of the old 
gentleman to do, b^gin* your pardon, sir," ex- 
claimed the detective with enthusiasm. 

Five minutes afterwards, Mr. MeUish re-entered 
the room, bringing the gardener with him. The 
man had been into Doncaster to see his fiiends, 
and only returned about half an hour 'before ; so 
the master of the house had caught him in the act 
of making havoc with a formidable cold joint, and 
a great jar of pickled cabbage, in the servants' hall. 

"Now, you're not to be frightened, Dawson," 
said the young squire, with friendly indiscretion ; 
"of course nobody for a moment suspects you, 
any more than they suspect me ; but this gentle- 
man here wants to see you, and of course you 
know there's no reason that he shouldn't see you 
if he wishes it, though what he wants with you — " 

Mr. MeUish stopped abruptly, arrested by a 
frown from Talbot Bulstrode ; and the gardener, 
who was innocent of the faintest comprehension of 
his master's meaning, pulled his hair respectfully, 
and shuffled nervously upon the slippery Indian 
matting. 




THE BBASS BUTTON BT OBOSBT, BIBlONaHAM. 255 

** I only want to ask you a question or two to 
decide a wager between these two gentlemen aad 
me, Mr. Dawson/* said the detective with re- 
assuring familiarity, " You bought a second-hand 
waistcoat of Gogram, in the market-place, didn't 
you, about a year and a half ago ?* 

" Ay, sure, sir. I bought a weskit at Gogram's,'' 
answered the gardener; "but it weren't second- 
hand ; it were bran new.'* 

" A yellow stripe upon a brown groimd ?' 

The man nodded, with his mouth wide open, in 
the extremity of his surprise at this London 
stranger's famiUarity with the details of his toUet 

"I dunno how you come to know about that 
weskit, sir," he said, with a grin ; "it were wore 
out fall six months ago ; for I took to wearin* of it 
in t' garden, and garden-work soon spiles anything 
in the way of clothes ; but him as I give it to was 
glad enough to have it, though it was awful 
shabby." 

" Him as you give it to ?' repeated Mr. Grim- 
stone, not pausing to amend the sentence, in his 
eagerness. " Tou gave it away, then ?' 

" Yees, I gave it to th' ' Softy ;' and wasn't th' 
poor fond chap glad to get it, that's all !" 



256 AUBOSJL FLOTDu 

"The * Softy M" exclaimed Mr. Grimstona 
« Who's tibe* Softy T 

^ The man we spoke of last night," answered 
Talbot Bnlstrode; ^the man wham Mrs. Mellish 
found in this room upon the morning before the 
murder, — ^the man called Stephen Hargraves." 

"Ay, ay, to be sure; I thought as much," 
mxumured the detective. "That will do, Mr* 
Dawson," he added, addressing the gardener, who 
had shuffled a good deal nearer to the doorway in 
his uneasy state of mind. ^* Stay, though ; I may 
as well ask you one more question. Were any of 
the buttons missing off that waistcoat when you 
gave it away ?' 

"Not one on 'em," answered the gardener, 
decisively. " My missus is too particular for that. 
She's a reg'lar toidy one, she is ; allers mendin' 
and patchin' ; and if one of t' buttons got loose 
she was sure to sew it on toight again, before 
it was lost." 

" Thank you, Mr. Dawson," returned the detec- 
tive, with the friendly condescension of a superior 
being. " Good-night." 

The gardener shuffled off, very glad to be 
released from the awful presence of his superiors. 




THE BRASS BUTTON BY CROSBY, BIRMINGHAM. 257 

and to go back to the cold meat and pickles in 
the servants' haU. 

" I think Fm bringing the business into a nut- 
shell, sir," said Mr. Grimstone, when the door had 
closed upon the gardener. " But the less* said, the 
better, just yet awhile. I'll take the list of the 
numbers of the notes, please, sir ; and I believe I 
shall come upon you for that two himdred pound, 
Mr. Mellish, before either of us is many weeks 
older." 

So, with the list made by cautious Archibald 
Floyd, bestowed safely in his waistcoat-pocket, 
Mr. Joseph Grimstone walked back to Doncaster 
through the still summer's night, intent upon the 
business he had undertaken. 

" It looked uncommon black against the lady 
about a week ago," he thought, as he walked 
meditatively across the dewy grass in Mellish 
Park ; " and I fancy the information they got at 
the Yard would have put a fool upon the wrong 
scent, and kept him on it tiU the right one got 
worn out. But it's clearing up, it's clearing up 
beautiful ; and I think it'll turn out one of the 
neatest cases I ever had the handhng oV\ 



258 JOMmx wLOfUk. 



CHAPTER Xm. 

OFF THE SCENT. 

It IB scarcely necessary to say, that, with the 
button by Crosby in his pocket, and with the in- 
formation acquired from Dawson the gardener, 
stowed away carefully in his mind, Mr. Joseph 
Orimstone looked with an eye of particular interest 
upon Steeve Hargraves the " Softy.** 

The detective had not come to Doncaster 
alone. He had brought with him a humble ally 
and follower, in the i^ape of the little shabby- 
looking man who had encountered the "Softy** 
at the railway station, haying received orders to 
keep a close watch upon Mr. Stephen Hargraves. 
It was of course a very easy matter to identify the 
"Softy ** in the town of Doncaster, where he had 
been pretty generally known since his childhood. 

Mr. Grimstone had called upon a medical 
practitioner, and had submitted the button to him 



^ 



OFF TECa SCENT. .259 

for inspection. The "stains upon it were indeed 
tliat which the detective had supposed — ^blood; 
and the surgeon detected a minute morsel of 
cartilage adhering to the jagged hasp of the 
button ; but the same surgeon declared that this 
missile could not have been the one used by the 
murderer of James Conyers. It had not been 
through the dead man's body; it had inflicted 
only a surface wound. 

The business which now lay before Mr. Grim- 
stone was the tracing of one or other of the bank- 
notes; and for this purpose he and his ally set to 
work upon the track of the " Softy," with a view of 
discovering all the places which it was his habit 
to visit. The haunts affected by Mr. Hargraves 
turned out to be some half-dozen very obscure 
public-houses ; and to each of these Joseph Grim- 
stone went in person. 

But he could discover nothing. AH' his in- 
quiries only elicited the fact that Stephen Har- 
graves had not been observed to change, or to 
attempt to change, any bank-note whatever. He 
had paid for all he had had, and spent more 
than it was usual for him to spend, drinking a 
good deal harder than had been his habit hereto- 

VOL. m. T 



260 AUBOSJL nan>. 

fore ; but he bad paid in SLLTer, except on one 
occaoon, when be bad dianged a sovereign. Tbe 
detectiTe called at the bank ; bat no person answer- 
ing tbe description of Stepben Hargrayes bad beai 
obserred there. The detectiTe endeayoared to 
discoyer any friends or companions of the ^' Softy ;" 
but here again he failed. The half-witted hanger- 
on of the Mellisb stables had never made any fri^ids, 
being entirely deficient in all social qualities. 

There was something almost miracolons in the 
manner in which Mr. Joseph Grimstone contrived 
to make himself master of any information which 
he wished to acquire ; and before noon on the 
day after his interview with Mr. Dawson the 
gardener, he had managed to eliminate all the facts 
set down above, and had also succeeded in in- 
gratiating himself into the confidence of the dirty 
old proprietress of that humble lodging in which 
the " Softy " had taken up his abode. 

It is scarcely necessary to this story to tell how 
the detective went to work; but while Stephen 
Hargrayes sat soddening his stupid brain with 
medicated beer in a low tap-room not far ofi", and 
while Mr. Grimstone's ally kept close watch, 
holding himself in readinesst to give warning 




OFF THE BCENl!. 261 

of any movement on the part of tlie suspected 
individual, Mr. Grimstone himseK went so cleverly 
to woA in his manipulation of tlie " Softy's " lani. 
lady, that in less than a quarter of an hour he 
had taken full possession of that weak point in 
the intellectual citadel which is commonly called 
the blind side, and was able to do what he pleased 
with the old woman and her wretched tenement: 

His peculiar pleasure was to make a very 
elaborate examination of the apartment rented 
by the " Softy,*' and any other apartments, cup- 
boards, or hiding-places to which Mr. Hargraves 
had access. But he found nothing to reward him 
for his trouble. The old T^oman was in the habit 
of receiving casual [lodgers, resting for a night or 
so at Doncaster before tramping inrther on their 
vagabond wanderings ; and the six-roomed dwell- 
ing-place was only ftimished with such meagre 
accommodation as may be expected for fourpence 
and sixpence a night. There were few hiding- 
places, — ^no carpets, underneath which fat bundles 
of bank-notes might be hidden ; no picture-lrames, 
behind which the same species of property might 
be bestowed ; no ponderous cornices or heavily- 
fringed valances shrouding the windows, and 

T 2 



262 AUBO&A FLOimt. 

affording dusty recesses wherein the title-deeds (^ 
half a dozen fortunes might lie and rot There were 
two or three capboards, into which Hr. Grimstone 
penetrated with a tallow candle; but he discoyered 
nothing of any more importance than crockery- 
ware, lucifer-matchesy fire-wood, potatoes, bare 
ropes, on which an onion lingered here and there 
and sprouted dismally in its dark loneliness, 
empty ginger-beer bottles, oyster-shells, old boots 
and shoes, disabled mouse-traps, black beetles, and 
humid fungi rising ghost-like from the damp and 
darkness. 

Mr. Grimstone emerged dirty and discomforted, 
from one of these dark recesses, after a profitless 
search, which had occupied a couple of weary hours. 

" Some other chapll go in and cut the ground 
under my feet, if I waste my time this way,** 
thought the detective. " I'm blest if I don^t think 
I've been a fool for my pains. The man carries 
the money about him, — ^that's as clear as mud ; 
and if I were to search Doncaster tiU my hair 
got gray, I shouldn't find what I want" 

Mr. Grimstone shut the door of the last cup- 
board which he had examined, with an impatient 
slam, and then turned towards the window. 




OFF THE SOENT. 263 

There was no sign of his scout in the Utile alley 
before the house, and he had time therefore for 
further business. 

He had examined everything in the " Softy's " 
apartment, and he had paid particular attention 
to the state of Mr. Hargraves* wardrobe, which 
consisted of a pile of garments, every one of 
which bore in its cut and fashion the stamp of a 
different individuality, and thereby proclaimed 
itself as having belonged to another master. 
There was a Newmarket coat of John Mellish's, 
and a pair of hunting-breeches, which could only 
have built up the great Poole himself, split across 
the knees, but otherwise little the worse for wear. 
There was a linen jacket, and an old livery 
waistcoat that had belonged to one of the servants 
at the Park ; odd tops of every shade known in 
the hunting-field, from the spotless white, or the 
delicate champagne-cleaned cream colour of the 
dandy, to the favourite vinegar hue of the hard- 
riding country squire ; a groom's hat with a tar- 
nished band and a battered crown ; hob-nailed boots, 
which may have belonged to Mr. Dawson ; cordu- 
roy breeches that could only have fitted a dropsical 
lodge-keeper, long deceased ; and there was one 



264 AJJECf&JL FLOYDw 

gannent which bore upon it the ghastly impress 
of a dreadful deed that had but lately been done. 
This was the velveteen shooting-coat worn by 
James Conyers, the trainer, which, pierced with 
the murderous bullet, and stiffened by the soaking 
torrent of blood, had been appropriated by Mr. 
Stephen Eargraves in the confusion of the cata^ 
strophe. All these things, with sundry rubbish in 
Ihewayof odd spurs aad whip-handles. scraps of 
broken harness, ends of rope, and such other 
scrapings as only amiser loves to accumulate, were 
packed in a lumbering trunk covered with nmngy 
fur, and secured by about a dozen yards of knotted 
and jagged rope, tied about it in such a manner 
as the "Softy" had* considered sufficient to defy 
the most artfiil thief in Christendom. 

Mr. Grimstone had made very short work of all 
the elaborate defences in the way of knots and 
entanglements, and had ransacked the box &om 
one end to the other; nay, had even closely 
examined the fur covering of the trunk, and had 
tested each separate brass-headed nail to ascertain 
if any of them had been removed or altered. He 
may have thought it just possible that two 
thousand pounds' worth of Bank of England paper 




OFF THE soEirr. 265 

had been nailed down under the mangy fiir. He 
gave a weary sigh as he concluded his inspection, 
replaced the garments one by one in the trunk, 
reknotted and secured the jagged cord, and with a 
weary sigh turned his back upon the " Softy's '* 
chamber. 

"It's no good," he thought. "The yellow- 
striped waistcoat isn't among his clothes, and the 
money isn't hidden away anywhere. Can he be 
deep enough to have destroyed that waistcoat, I 
wonder? He'd got a red woollen one on this 
morning ; perhaps he's got the yellow-striped one 
under it." 

Mr. Grimstone brushed the dust and cobwebs off 
his clothes, washed his hands in a greasy wooden 
bowl of scalding water, which the old woman 
brought him, and then sat down before the fire, pick- 
ing his teeth thoughtfully, and with his eyebrows 
set in a reflective frown over his small gray eyes. 

« I don't like to be beat," he thought ; " I don't 
like to be beat." He doubted if any magistrate 
would grant him a warrant against the "Softy" 
upon the strength of the evidence in his posses- 
sion — ^the blood-stained button by Crosby of 
Birmingham ; and without a warrant he could' not 



266 AUBORA FLOYD. 

search for the notes upon the person of the man 
he suspected. He had sounded all the out-door 
servants at Mellish Park, but had been able to dis- 
cover nothing that threw any light upon the move- 
ments of Stephen Hargraves on the night of the 
murder. No one remembered having seen him ; 
no one had been on the southern side of the wood 
that night. One of the lads had passed the north 
lodge on his way from the high-road to the stables, 
about the time at which Aurora had heard the 
^hot fired in the wood, and had seen a light 
burning in the lower window ; but this, of course, 
proved nothing either one way or the other. 

"K we could find the money upon Jiinij* 
thought Mr. Grimstone; "it would be pretty 
strong proof of the robbery ; and if we find the 
waistcoat oflf which that button came, in his 
possession, it wouldn't be bad evidence of the 
murder, putting the two things together ; but we 
shall have to keep a precious sharp watch upon my 
friend, while we hunt up what we want, or I'm 
blest if he won't give us the slip, and be off to 
Liverpool and out of the coimtry before we know 
where we are." 

Now the truth of the matter is, that Mr. Joseph 



OFF THE SCENT. 267 

Grimstone was not, perhaps, acting quite so 
conscientiously in this business as he might have 
done, had the love of justice in the abstract, and 
without any relation to sublunary reward, been 
the ruling principle of his life. He might have 
had any help he pleased, from the Doncaster 
constabulary, had he chosen to confide in the 
members of that force ; but, as a very knowing 
individual who owns a three-year old, which he 
has reason to believe " a flyer," is apt to keep the 
capabilities of his horse a secret from his friends 
and the sporting public, while he puts a "pot " of 
money upon the animal at enormous odds, so 
Mr. Grimstone desired to keep his information to 
himself, until it should have brought him its 
golden fruit in the shape of a small reward from 
Government, and a large one from John Mellish. 

The detective had reason to know that the 
Dogberries of Doncaster, misled by a duplicate of 
that very letter which had first aroused the atten- 
tion of Scotland Yard, were on the wrong scent, 
as he had been at first ; and he was very well 
content to leave them where they were. 

" No," he thought, " it's a critical game ; but 
111 play it single-handed, or, at least, with no one 



268 JLUBORA 7L0YB. 

better than Tom Chivers to help me through with 
it ; and a ten-pomid note will satisfy him, if we 
win the day." 

Pondering thus, Mr. Grimstone departed, after 
haying recompensed the landlady for her civility 
by a donation which the old woman considered 
princely. 

He had entirely deluded her as to the object 
of his search by telling her that he was a lawyer's 
clerk, commissioned by his employer to hunt for 
a codicil which had been hidden somewhere in 
that house by an old man who had lived in it in 
the year 1783; and he had contrived, in the 
course of conversation, to draw fix>m the old 
woman, who was of a garrulous turn, all that she 
had to tell about the « Softy." 

It was not much, certainly. Mr. Hargraves had 
never changed a bank-note with her knowledge. 
He had paid for his bit of victuals as he had it, 
but had not spent a shilling a day. As to bank- 
notes, it wasn't at all likely that he had any of 
them ; for he was always complaining that he was 
very poor, and that his little bit of savings, scraped 
together out of his wages, wouldn't last him long. 
^ ** This Hargraves is a precious deep one for aH 



OFF THE SCSHT. 269 

they call him soft," thought Mr. Grimstone, as he 
left the lodging-house, and walked slowly towards 
the sporting pubKc-house at which he had left the 
" Softy ** under the watchful eye of Mr. Tom Chivers. 
"Fve often heard say that these half-witted chaps 
have more cunning in their little fingers than a 
better man has in the whole of his composition. 
Another man would have never been able to stand 
against the temptation of changing one of those 
notes ; or would have gone about wearing that iden- 
tical waistcoat ; or would have made a bolt of it the 
day after the murder ; or tried on something or 
other that would have blown the gaff upon him ; 
but not your * So% V He hides the notes and he 
hides the waistcoat, and then he laughs in his 
sleeve at those that want him, and sits drinking 
his beer as comfortably as you please." 

Pondering thus, the detective made his way to 
the public-house in which he had left Mr. Stephen 
Hargraves* He ordered a glass of brandy-and- 
water at the bar, and walked into the taproom, 
expecting to see the " Softy " still brooding sullenly 
over his drink, still guarded by the apparently in- 
different eye of Mr. Chivers. But it was not so. 
The taproom was empty; and upon making 



270 ATJBOEA FLOYD. 

cautious inquiries, Mr. Grimstone discovered that 
the " Softy " and his watcher had been gone for 
upwards of an hour. 

Mr. Chivers had been forbidden to let his 
charge out of sight under any circumstances what- 
ever, except indeed if the "Softy" had turned 
homewards while Mr. Grimstone was employed in 
ransacking his domicile, in which event Tom was 
to have slipped on a few paces before him, and 
given warning to his chief. Wherever Stephen 
Hargraves went, Mr. Thomas Chivers was to 
follow him ; but he was, above all, to act in such 
a manner as would effectually prevent any sus- 
picion arising in the "Softy's" mind as to the 
fiict that he was followed. 

It will be seen, therefore, that poor Chivers had 
no very easy task to perform, and it has been seen 
that he had heretofore contrived to perform it 
pretty skilfiilly. If Stephen Hargraves sat boozing 
in a taproom half the day, Mr. Chivers was also to 
booze or to make a pretence of boozing, for the 
same length of time. If the " Softy " showed any 
disposition to be social, and gave his companion 
any opportunity of getting friendly with him, the 
detective's underling was to employ his utmost skill 



OFF THE 80ENT. 271 

and discretion in availing himself of that golden 
chance. It is a wondrous provision of Providence 
that the treachery which would be hateftd and hor- 
rible in any other man^ is considered perfectly legiti- 
mate in the mau who is employed to hunt out a mur- 
derer or a thief. The vile instruments which the 
criminal employed against his unsuspecting \dctim 
are in^due time used against himself; and the 
wretch who laughed at the poor unsuspecting dupe 
who was trapped to his destruction by his lies, is 
caught in his turn by some shallow deceit, or 
pitifully hackneyed device, of the paid spy, who 
has been bribed to lure him to his doom. For 
the outlaw of society, the code of honour is null 
and void. His existence is a perpetual peril to 
innocent women and honourable men; and the 
detective who beguiles him to his end does such 
a service to society as must doubtless counter- 
balance the treachery of the means by which it is 
done. The days of Jonathan Wild and his com- 
peers are over, and the thief-taker no longer 
begins life as a thief. The detective officer is as 
honest as he is intrepid and astute, and it is not 
his own fault if the dirty nature of all crime gives 
him now and then dii-ty work to da 



272 AtJROBA TFLOYD. 

But Mr. St^hen Hargraves did not give the 
oj^itunity for which Tom Ohivers had been 
bidden to lie in wait ; he sat sollen, silent, stupid, 
unapproachable ; and as Tom's orders were not to 
force himself upon his companion, he was fain to 
abandon all thought of worming himself into the 
** Softy's" good graces. This made the task of 
watching him all the more difficult. It is not 
such a very easy matter to follow a man without 
seeming to follow him. 

It was market-day too^ and the town was 
crowded with noisy country peopla Mr. Grim- 
stone suddenly remembered this, and the recollec- 
tion by no means added to his peace of mind. 

^ Chivers never did sell me," he thought, " and 
surely he won't do it now. I dare say they're safe 
enough, for the matter of that, in some other 
public I'll slip out and look after them." 

Mr. Grimstone had, as I have said, already 
made himself acquainted with all the haunts 
affected by the " Softy." It did not take him 
long, therefore, to look in at the three or four 
public-houses where Steeve Hargraves was likely 
to be found, and to discover that he was not there. 

" He's slouching about the town somewhere or 



OFF THB 80BNT. 273 

other^ I dare imy," thought the detective, "with 
my mate close upon his heels. I'll stroll towards 
the market-place, and see if I can find them any- 
where that way," 

Mr* Grimstone turned out of the by-street in 
which he had been walking, into a narrow alley 
leading to the broad open square up(»i which the 
market-place stands. 

The detective went his way in a leisurely 
manner, with his hands in his pockets and a cigar 
in his mouth. He had perfect confid^oice in Mr. 
Thomas Chivers, and the crowded state of the 
market-place and its neighbourhood in no way 
weakened his sense of security. 

" Chivers will stick to him through thick and 
thin," he thought; "he'd keep an eye upon his 
man if he had to look after him between Charing 
Cross and Whitehall when the Queen was going 
to open Parliament. He's not the man to be 
flummuxed by a crowd in a country market- 
place." 

Serene in this sense of security, Mr. Glrimstcme 
amused himself by looking about him, with an 
expression of somewhat supercilious wonder, at 
the manners and customs of those indigense who, 



i 



274 AUBOAA FLOYD. 

upon market-day, make their inroad into the 
quiet town. He paused upon the edge of a little 
sunken flight of worn steps leading down to the 
stage-door of the theatre, and read the fragments 
of old bills mouldering upon the door-posts and 
linteL There were glowing announcements of 
dramatic performances that had long ago taken 
place ; and above the rain and mud stained relics 
of the past, in bold black lettering, appeared the 
record oi a drama as terrible as any that had ever 
been enacted in that provincial theatre. The bill- 
sticker had posted the announcement of the 
reward offered by John Mellish for the discovery 
of the murderer in every available spot, and had 
not forgotten this position, which commanded one 
of the entrances to the market-place. 

"It's a wonder to me," muttered Mr. Grim- 
stone, "that that blessed bill shouldn't have 
opened the eyes of these Doncaster noodles. But 
I dare say they think it's a blind, a planned 
thing to throw 'em off the scent their clever noses 
are sticking to so determined. K I can get my 
man before they open their eyes, I shall have 
such a haul as I haven't met with lately." 

Musing thus pleasantly, Mr. Grim stone turned 



OFF THB 80ENT. 275 

his back upon the theatre, and crossed oyer to the 
market. Within the building the clamour of buy- 
ing and selling was at its height : noisy country- 
men chaffering in their northern J9a^(>^s upon the 
value and merits of poultry, butter, and eggs; 
dealers in butchers' meat bewildering themselves 
in the endeavour to simultaneously satisfy the 
demands of half a dozen sharp and bargain-loving 
}iousekeepers; while from without there came a 
confiised clatter of other merchants and other 
customers, clamouring and hustling round the 
stalls of greengrocers and the slimy barrows of 
blue-jacketed^ fishmongers. In the midst of all 
this bustle and confusion, Mr. Grimstone came 
suddenly upon his trusted ally, pale, terror- 
stricken, and — ^ALONE ! 

The detective's mind was not slow to grasp the 
full force of the situation. 

"You've lost him !" he whispered fiercely, seizing 
the unfortunate Mr. Chivers by the collar, and 
pinning him as securely as if he had serious 
thoughts of making him a permanent fixture 
upon the stone-flags of the market-place. "You've 
lost him, Tom Chivers!" he continued, hoarse 
with agitation. "You've lost the party that J 

VOL. m. IT 



ii76 AtmOBA FLOTD. 

told you vfas worth more to me than any other 
party I ever gave you the oflSce for. You've lost 
me the best chance I've ever had since I've been 
in Scotland Yard, and yourself too ; for I should 
have acted liberal by you," added the detective, 
apparently oblivious of that morning's reverie, in 
which he had pre-determined offering his assistant 
ten pounds; in satisfaction of all his claims, — ^ I 
should have acted very liberal by you, Tom. 
But what's the use of standing jawing here ? You 
come along with me; you can tell me how it 
happened as we go/' 

With his powerful grasp stiU on the underling's 
collar, Mr. Grimstone walked out of the market- 
place, neither looking to the right nor the left, 
though many a pair of rustic eyes opened to their 
widest as he passed, attracted no doubt by the 
rapidity of his pace and the obvious determination 
of his manner. Perhaps those rustic bystanders 
thought that the stem-looking gentleman in the 
black frock-coat had arrested the shabby little 
man in the act of picking his pocket, and was 
bearing him off to deliver him straight into the 
hands of justice. 

Mr. Grimstone released his'' grasp when he 



OFF THE SGENT. 277 

and his companion bad got clear of the market- 
place. 

" Now," he said, breathless, but not slackem'ng 
his pace, — " now I suppose you can tell me how 
you came to make such an " — ^inadmiss€J}le adjec- 
tive — "fod of yourself? Never you mind where 
I'm goin'. I'm goin' to the railway station. Never 
you mind why I'm goin' there. You'd guess why, 
if you weren't a fooL Now teU me all about it, 
can't you?" 

"It aint much to tell," the humble follower 
gasped, his respiratory functions sadly tried by the 
pace at which his superior went oyer the ground. 
^^It aint much. I followed your instructions 
faithAil. I tried, artful and quiet-like, to make 
acquaintance with him ; but that wam't a bit o' 
good. He was as surly as a bull-terrier, so I 
didn't force him to it ; but kept an eye upon him, 
and let out before him as it was racin' business 
as had brought me to Doncaster, and as I was 
here to look after a horse, what was in trainin' 
a few miles off, for a gent in London ; and when 
he left the public, I went after him, but not con- 
spicuous. But I think from that minute he was 
fly, for he didn't go three steps without lookin' 

u 2 



278 • AUBOAA FLOYD. 

backy and he led me such a chase as made my 
legs tremble under me, which they trembles at 
this moment; and then he gets me into the 
market-place, and he dodges here, and he dodges 
there, and wherever the crowd's thickest he 
dodges most^ till he gets me at last in among a 
ring of market-people round a couple o' coves 
a-millin' with each* other, and there I loses him. 
And I've been in and out the market, and here 
and there, until I'm fit to drop, but it aint no 
good ; and you've no call to lay the blame on me, 
for mortal man couldn't have done more." 

Mr. Chivers wiped the perspiration from his 
face in testimony of his exertions. Dirty little 
streams were rolling down his forehead and trick- 
ling upon his poor faded cheeks. He mopped up 
these evidences of his fatigue with a red cotton 
handkerchief, and gave a deprecatory sigL 

"K there's anybody to lay blame on, it aint 
me," he said mildly. '^I said all along you ought 
to have had help. A man as is on his own ground, 
and knows his own ground, is more than a match 
for one cove, however hard he may work." 

The detective turned fiercely upon his meek 
dependent. 



OFF THE 80ENT. 279. 

/"Who's blaming you?" he cried impatiently. 
" I wouldn't cry out before I was hurt, if I were 
you.'* > 

. They had reached the railway station by this^ 
time. 

" How long is it since you missed him ?" asked 
Mr. Grimstone of the penitent Chivers. 

*' Three-quarters of a hour, or it may be a hour,'* 
Tom added doubtfully. 

"I dare say it w an hour," muttered the 
detective. 

He walked straight to one of the chief oiBScials, 
and asked what trains had left within the last hour. 

" Two-— both market trains : one eastward, Selby 
way ; the other for Penistone, and the intervening 
stations." 

The detective looked at the time-table, running 
his thumb-nail along the names of the stations. 

" That train will reach Penistone in time to catch 
the Liverpool train, won't it ?" he asked. 

« Just about" 

"What time did it go?" 

"The Penistone train r 

"Yes." 

** About half an hour ago ; at 2.30." 



280- AtmOBA Jk^YD. 

The clocks had strack three as- Mr. Grimstoiie 
made his way to the station. 

"Half an hour ago," muttered the detective. 
**He'd have had ample time to catch the train 
after giving Chivers the slip." 

He questioned the guards and porters as to 
whether any of them had seen a man answering to 
the description of the " Softy :" a white-faced, hump- 
backed fellow, in corduroys and a fustian jacket; 
and even penetrated into the ticket-clerk's office 
to ask the same question. 

No; none of them had seen Mr. Stephen Har- 
graves. Two or three of them recognized him by 
the detective's description, and asked if it was one^ 
of the stable-men from Mellish Park that the 
gentleman was inquiring after. Mr. Grimstone 
rather evaded any direct answer to this question. 
Secrecy was, as we know, the principle upon which 
he conducted his affairs. 

"He may have contrived to give 'em all the 
slip," he said confidentially to his faithful but 
dispirited ally. "He may have got off without 
any of 'em seeing him. He's got the money about 
him, I'm all but certain of that ; and his game is 
to get off to Liverpool. His inquiries after the 



OFF THE SCSNT. 281 

trains yesterday proves that. Now I might tele- 
graph, and have him stopped at Liverpool — 
supposing him to have given us all the slip, and 
gone oflf there — if I like to let others into the 
game ; but I don't. I'll play to win or lose ; but 
m play single-handed. He may try another 
dodge, and get off Hull way by the canal-boats 
that the market-people use, and then slip across 
to Hamburg, or something of that sort; but 
that aint likely, — ^these fellows always go one 
way. It seems as if the minute a man has taken 
another man's life, or forged his name, or em- 
bezzled his money, his ideas' get fixed in one 
groove, and never can soar higher than Liver- 
pool and the American packet." 

Mr. Chivers listened respectfully to his patron's 
communications. He was very well pleased to 
see the serenity of his employer's mind gradually 
returning. 

" Now, I'll tell you what, Tom," said Mr. Grim- 
stone. " If this chap has given us the slip, why 
he's given us the slip, and he's got a start of us, 
which we sha'n't be able to pick up till half-past 
ten o'clock to-night, when there's a train that'll 
take us to Liverpool. If he hawit given us the 



282 AUBOBA FLOYD. 

dip, there's only one way he can leave Doncaster, 
and that's by this station ; so you stay here patient 
and quiet till you see me, or hear from me. If 
he is in Doncaster, I'm jiggered if I don't find 
him." 

With which powerful asseveration Mr. Grim- 
stone walked away, leaving his scout to keep 
watch for the possible coming of the " Softy." 



283 



CHAPTEE XIV. 

TALBOT BULSTRODE MAKES ATONEMENT FOR THE 

PAST. 

John Mellish and Talbot Balstrode walked to 
and fro upon the lawn before the drawing-room 
windows on that afternoon on which the detective 
and his underling lost sight of Stephen Hargraves. 
It was a dreary time, this period of watching and 
waiting, of uncertainty and apprehension; and 
poor John Mellish chafed bitterly under the 
burden which he had to bear. 

Now that his friend's common sense iad come 
to his relief, and that a few plain out-spoken 
sentences had dispersed the terrible cloud of 
mystery ; now that he himself was fully assured of 
his wife's innocence, he had no patience with the 
stupid country people who held themselves aloof 
from the woman he loved. He wanted to go out 
and do battle for his slandered wife ; to hurl back 
every base suspicion into the faces that had 



284 AURORA FLOYD. 

scowled upon his idolized Aurora. How could 
they dare, these foul-minded slanderers, to harbour 
one base thought against the purest, the most 
perfect of women ? Mr. Mellish of course quite 
•forgot that he, the rightful defender of all this 
perfection, had suffered his mind to be for a time 
obscured beneath the black shadow of that vile 
suspicion. 

He hated the old friends of his youth for their 
base avoidance of him ; the servants of his house- 
hold for a half-doubtful, half-solemn expression of 
face, which he knew had relation to that growing 
suspicion, that horrible suspicion, which seemed to 
grow stronger with every hour. He broke out 
into a storm of rage with the gray-haired butler, 
who had carried him pick-a-back in his infancy, 
because the faithful retainer tried to hold back 
certain newspapers which contained dark allusions 
to the Mellish mystery. 

" Who told you I didn't want the ' Manchester 
Guardian,' Jarvis?" he cried fiercely; "who gave 
you the right to dictate what I'm to read or 
what I'm to leave unread? I do want to-day's 
^Guardian;' to-day's, and yesterday's, and to- 
morrow's, and every other newspaper that comes 



TALBOT BULSTBODE MAKES ATONEMENT. 285 

into this house. I won't have them overhauled 
by you, or anyone, to see whether they're pleasant 
reading or not, before they're brought to me. Do 
you think Fm afraid of anything these penny-a- 
liner fellows can write ?" roared the young squire, 
strrking his open hand upon the table at which 
he sat. "Let them write their best or their 
worst of me. But let them write one word that 
can be twisted into an insinuation upon the purest 
and truest woman in aU Christendom, and, by the 
Lord above me, 111 give them such a thrashing — 
penny-a-liners, printers, pubKshers, and every man. 
Jack of them — ^as shall make them remember the 
business to the last hour of their Uves !" 

Mr. Mellish said all this in despite of the re- 
straining presence of Talbot Bulstrode. Indeed, 
the young member for Penruthy had by no means 
a pleasant time of it during those few days of 
anxiety and suspense. A keeper set to watch 
over a hearty young jungle-tiger, and bidden to 
prevent the noble animal from committing any 
imprudence, might have found bis work little 
harder than that which Mr. Bulstrode did, patiently 
and uncomplainingly, for pure friendship's sake. 

John Mellish roamed about in the custody of 



286. ATJBOBA FLOYD. 

this friendly keeper, with his short auburn hair' 
tumbled into a feverish-looking mass, like a field 
of ripening com that had been beaten by a summer 
hurricane, his cheeks sunken and haggard, and a 
bristling yellow stubble upon his chin. I dare say 
. he had made a tow neither to shave nor be 
shaven until the murderer of James Conyers 
should be found. He clung desperately to Talbot 
Bulstrode, but he clung with still wilder despera* 
tion to the detective, the professional criminal 
hunter, who had in a manner tacitly pledged 
himself to the discovery of the real homicide. 

All through the fitful August day, now hot and 
still, now overclouded and rfiowery, the master of 
Mellish Park went hither and thither, — now sitting 
in his study ; now roaming out on the lawn ; now 
pacing up and down the drawing-room, displacing, 
disarranging, and overturning the pretty furniture ; 
now wandering up and down the staircase, lolling on 
the landing-places, and patrolling the corridor out- 
side, the rooms in which Lucy and Aurora sat together 
making a show of employing themselves, but only 
waiting, waiting, waiting, for the hoped-for end. 

Poor John scarcely cared to raeet»that dearly- 
loved wife ; for the great earnest eyes that looked 



. 1 



TALBOT BULSTBODE MAKES ATONEMENT. 287 

in his £Etce always asked the same question so 
plainly, — always appealed so piteously for the 
answer that could not be given. 

It was a weary and a bitter time. I wonder, 
as I write of it, when I think of a quiet Somerset^ 
shire household in which a dreadful deed was 
done, the secret of which has never yet been 
brought to light, and perhaps never -will be 
revealed until the Day of Judgment, what must 
have been suffered by each member of thxxt family ? 
What slow agonies, what ever-increasing tortures, 
while that cruel mystery was the "sensation" 
topic of conversation in a thousand happy home- 
circles, in a thousand tavern-parlours and pleasant 
club-rooms ! — a common and ever-interesting topic, 
by means of which travellers in first-class railway 
carriages might break down the ceremonial ice- 
bergs which surround each travelling Englishman, 
and grow Mendly and confidential ; a safe topic 
upon which even tacit enemies might talk plea- 
santly without fear of wrecking themselves upon 
hidden rocks of personal insinuation. God help 
that household, or any such household, through 
the weary time of waiting which it may please 
Him to appoint, until that day in which it shall 



288 AUBOBA JrUOYD. 

be His good pleasure to reveal the truth ! God 
help all patient creatures labouring under the 
burden of an unjust suspicion, and support them 
unto the end ! 

John Mellish chafed and fretted himself cease- 
lessly all through that August day at the non- 
appearance of the detective. Why didn't he 
come ? He had promised to bring or send them 
news of his proceedings. Talbot in vain assured 
his friend that Mr. Grimstone was no doubt hard 
at work ; that such a discovery as he had to make 
was not to be made in a day; and that Mr. 
Mellish had nothing to do but to make himself as 
comfortable as he could, and wait quietly for the 
event he desired so eagerly. 

*'I should not say this to you, John," Mr. 
Bulstrode said by-and-by, " if I did not believe — 
as I know this man Grimstone believes — that we 
are upon the right track, and are pretty sure to 
bring the crime home to the wretch who com- 
mitted it. You can do nothing but be patient, 
and wait the result of Grimstone's labours." 

" Yes," cried John Mellish ; " and in the mean 
time all these people are to say cruel things of 
my darling, and keep aloof from her, and — No, I 




TALBOT BULSTRODE MAKES ATONEMENT. 289 

axifit bear it, Talbot ; I can't bear it. I'll turn 
my back upon this confonnded place ; I'll seU it ; 
111 bnm it down; I'U— I'U do anything to get 
away, and take my precious one from the wretches 
who have slandered her !" f 

"That you shall not do, John Mellish," ex- 
claimed Talbot Bulstrode, " until the murderer of 
James Conyere has been discovered. Go away, 
then, as soon as you like ; for the associations of 
this place cannot be otherwise than disagreeable 
to you — for a time, at least. But until the truth 
is out, you must remain here. If there is any 
foul suspicion against Aurora, her presence here 
will best give the lie to that suspicion. It was 
her hurried journey to London which first set 
people talking of her, I dare say," added Mr. 
Bulstrode, who was of course entirely ignorant of 
the fact that an anonymous letter from Mrs. 
Powell had originally aroused the suspicions of 
the Doncaster constabulary. 

So through the long summer's day Talbot 
reasoned with and comforted his friend, never 
growing weary of his task, never for one moment 
losing sight of the interests of Aurora MeUish and 
her husband, ' 



290 AUEORA FLOYD. 

Perhaps this was a self-imposed penalty for the 
wrong which he had done the banker s daughter 
long ago in the dim star-lit chamber at Felden. If 
it was so, he did penance very cheerfully. 

"Heaven knows how gladly I would do her 
a service," he thought; **her life has been a 
troubled one, in spite of her father's thousands. 
Thank Heaven, my poor little Lucy has never 
been forced into playing the heroine of a tragedy 
like this ; thank Heaven, my poor little darling's 
life flows evenly and placidly in a smooth 
channel 1" 

He could not but reflect with something of a 
shudder that it might have been his wife whose 
history was being canvassed throughout the West 
Biding. He could not be otherwise than pleased 
to remember that the name of the woman he had 
chosen had never gone beyond the holy circle of 
her own^^ home, to be the common talk among 
strangers. 

There are things which are utterly unendurable 
to some people, but which are not at all terrible 
in the eyes of others. John Mellish, secure in his 
own belief in his wife's innocence, would have 
been content to carry her away with him, after 



TALBOT BUL8TB0DE HAKES ATONEMENT. 291 

razing the home of his forefathers to the ground, 
and defying all Yorkshire to find a flaw or speck 
upon her fair fame* But Talbot Bulstrode would 
have gone mad with the agony of the thought 
that common tongues had defiled the name he 
loved, and would, in no after-triumph of his wife's 
innocence, been able to forget or to recover jfrom 
the torture of that unendurable agony. There 
are people who cannot forget, and Talbot Bulstrode 
was one of them. He had never forgotten his 
CSiristmas agony at Felden Woods, and the after- 
struggle at Bulstrode Castle; nor did he ever 
hope to forget it. The happiness of the present, 
pure and unalloyed though it was, could not 
annihilate the anguish of the past. That stood 
alone,^-so many months, weeks, days, and hours 
of unutterable misery, riven away from the rest of 
his life, to remain for ever a stony memorial upon 
the smooth plains of the past. 
• Archibald Martin Floyd sat vrith his daughter 
and Lucy, in Mrs. Mellish's morning-room, the 
pleasantest chamber for many reasons, but chiefly 
because it was removed from the bustle of the 
house, and from the chance of unwelcome in- 
trusion. All the troubles of that household had 
VOL. m. X 



292 AUBORA. FLOTB. 

been made light of in the presence of the old man, 
and no word had been dropped before him, which, 
could give him rectson to guess that his only child 
had been suspected of the most fearfdl crime that 
man or woman can commit. Bat Archibald 
Floyd was not easily to be deceived where his 
daughter's happiness was in question; he had 
watched that beautiful face— whose eyer^varying 
expression was its highest charm — so long and 
earnestly, as to hare grown femiKar with its every 
look. No shadow upon the brightness of his 
daughter's beauty could possibly escape the old 
man's eyes, dim as they may have grown for the 
figures in his banking-book. It was Aurora's 
business, therefore, to sit by her father's side in 
the pleasant morning-room, to talk to him and 
amuse him; while John rambled hither and 
thither, and made himself otherwise tiresome to 
his patient companion, Talbot Bulstrode. Mrs. 
Hellish repeated to her father again and again, 
that there was no cause for uneasiness ; they were 
merely anxious — naturally anxious — that the 
guilty man should be found and brought to 
justice ; nothing more. 

The banker accepted this explanation of his 



TALBOT BULSTBODE ICASES ATONEMENT. 298 

daughter's pale face very quietly ; but he was not 
the less anxious, — anxious he scarcely knew why, 
but with the shadow of a dark cloud hanging 
over him, that was not to be driven away. 

Thus the long August day wore itseK out, and 
the low sun^— blazing a lurid red behind the trees 
in Mellish Wood, until it made that pool beside 
which the murdered man had fallen, seem a pool 
of blood — ^gave warning that one weary day of 
watching and suspense was nearly done. 

John Mellish, far too restless to sit long at 
dessert, had roamed out upon ihe lawn : still 
attended by his indefatigable keeper, Talbot 
Bulstrode, and employed himself in pacing up and 
down the smooth grass amid Mr. Dawson's flower- 
beds, looking always' towards the pathway that 
led to the house, and breathing suppressed ana- 
themas against the dilatory detective. 
:., " One day nearly gone, thank Heaven, Talbot !" 
he said, with an impatient sigh. "Will to- 
morrow bring us no nearer what we want, I 
wonder ? What if it should go on like this for 
long? what if it should go on for ever, until 
Aurora and I go mad with this wretched anxiety 
and suspense ? Yes, I know you think me a 

X 2 



294 AUBORA FLOYD. 

fool and a coward, Talbot Bulstrode ; but I can't 
bear it quietly, I tell you I can't I know there 
are some people who can shut themselves up with 
their troubles, and sit down quietly and suffer 
without a groan ; but I can't. I must cry out 
when I am tortured, or I should dash my brains 
out against the first wall I came to, and make an 
end of it. To think that anybody should suspect 
my darling ! to think that they should believe her 
to be '' 

"To think that you should have believed it, 
John !" said Mr. Bulstrode, gravely. ' 

"Ah, there's the crudest stab of all," cried 
John; " if 7, — ^I who know her, and love her, and 
believe in her as man never yet believed in 
woman, — if I could have been bewildered and 
maddened by that horrible chain of cruel circum- 
stances, every one of which pointed — Heaven help 
me ! — at her ! — ^if I could be deluded by these 
things until my brain reeled, and I went nearly 
mad with doubting my own dearest love, what 
may strangers think — strangers who neither know 
nor love her, but who are only too ready to believe 
anything unnaturally infamous ? Talbot, I tvcn^t 
endure this any longer. I'll ride into Doncaster 




TALBOT BULSTKODE MAKES ATONEMENT. 295 

and see this man Grimstone. He rn/UBt have 
done some good to-day. I'll go at once." 

Mr. Mellish would have walked straight ofif to 
ithe stables ; but Talbot Bulstrode caught him by 
the arm. 

" You may miss the man on the road, John," 
he said. '^ He came last night after dark, and may 
come as late to-night. There's no knowing whether 
he'll come by the road, or the short cut across 
the fields. You're as likely to miss him as not." : 

Mr. Mellish hesitated. 

" He mayn't come at all to-night," he said ; 
* and I tell you I can't bear this suspense." 

"Let me ride into Doncaster, then, John," 

urged Talbot; **and you stay here to receive 

Grimstone if he should come." 

' Mr. Mellish was considerably mollified by this 
proposition, .i 

"Will you ride info the town, Talbot?" he said. 

"Upon my word, it's very kind of you to propose 

it. I shouldn't like to miss this man upon any 

account ; but at the same time I don't feel inclined 

to wait for the chance of his coming or staying 

away. I'm afraid I'm a great nuisance to you, 

Bulstrode." 



296 AUKOBA FLOYD. 

"Not a bit of it," answered Talbot, with a 
smile 

Perhaps he smiled involuntarily at the notion 
of how little John Mellish knew what a nuisance 
he had been through that weary day. 

" 111 go with very great pleasure, John," he 
said, "if you'll tell them to saddle a horse for 



me. 



" To be sure ; you shall have Ked Kover, my 
covert hack. We'll go round to the stables, and 
see about him at once." 

The truth of the matter is, Talbot Bulstrode 
was very well pleased himseK to hunt up the 
detective, rather than that John Mellish should 
execute that erranfl in person ; for it would have 
been about as easy for the young squire to have 
translated a number of the * Sporting Magazine * 
into Porsonian Greek, as to have kept a secret for 
half an hour, however earnestly entreated, or how- 
ever conscientiously determined to do so. 

Mr. Bulstrode had made it his particular busi- 
ness, therefore, during the whole of that day, to 
keep his friend as much as possible out 6f the 
way of every living creature, fully aware that Mr. 
Mellish's manner would most certainly betray 



TALBOT BULfiTBODB MAKES ATONEMENT. 297 

him to the least observant eyes that might chance 
to fall upon him* 

Eed Bover was saddled, and, after twenty 
loudly whispered injunctions from John, Talbot 
Bulstrode rode away in the evening sunlight The 
nearest way from the stables to the high road 
took him past the north lodge. It had been shut 
up since the day of the trainer's funeral, and^ such 
furniture as it contained left to become a prey to 
moths and rats ; for the Mellish servants were a 
great deal too superstitiously impressed with the 
story of the murder to dream of readmitting those 
goods and chattels which had been selected for 
Mr. Cony ers's accommodation to the garrets whence 
they had been taken. The door had been locked^ 
therefore, and the key given to Dawson the 
gardener, who was to be once more free to use 
the place as a storehouse for roots and matting, 
superannuated cucumber-frames, and crippled gar^ 
den tools. 

The place looked dreary enough, though the low 
sun made a gorgeous illumination upon one of 
the latticed windows that faced the crimson west, 
and though the last leaves of the roses were still 
lying upon the long grass in the patch of garden 



298 AXmOBA XXOYD.* 

before the door out of which Mr. Conyers had 
gone to his last resting-place. One of the stable- 
boys had accompanied Mr. Bulstrode to the lodge 
in order to open the rusty iron gates, which hung 
loosely on their hinges, and were never locked. 

Talbot rode at a brisk pace into Doncaster, never 
drawing rein untQ he reached the Uttle inn at 
which the detective had taken up his quarters. 
Mr. Grimstone had been snatching a hasty refresh- 
mehty after a weary and useless perambulation 
about the town, and came out with his mouth full, 
to speak to Mr. Bulstrode. But he took very 
good care not to confess that since three o'clock 
that day neither he nor his ally had seen or heard 
of Mr. Stephen Hargraves, or that he was actually 
no nearer the discovery of the murderer than ho 
had been at eleven o'clock upon the previous night, 
when he had discovered the original proprietor 
of the fancy waistcoat, with buttons by Crosby, 
Birmingham, in the person of Dawson the gardener. 

"I'm not losing any time, sir," he said, in 
answer to Talbot's inquiries ; " my sort of work's 
quiet work, and don't make no show till it's done. 
I've reason to think the man we want is in Don- 
caster ; so I stick in Doncaster, and mean to, till 



TALBOT BULSTBODE MAKES ATONEMENT. 2S9 

I lay my hand upon him, unless I should get 
information as would point further off. Tell Mr. 
MeUish I'm doing my duty, sir, and doing it 
conscientious; and that I shall neither eat nor 
drink nor sleep more than just as much as'll keep 
human nature together, until I've done what I've 
set my mind on doing." 

"But you've discovered nothing fresh, then?' 
said Talbot ; "you've nothing new to tell me ?" 

"Whatever I've discove:fed is neither here nor 
there yet awhile, sir," answered the detective 
vaguely. " You keep your heart up, and tell Mr. 
Mellish to keep his heart up, and trust in me." 

Talbot Bulstrode was obliged to be content 
with this rather doubtful comfort. It was not 
much, certainly ; but he determined to make the 
best of it to John Mellish. 

He rode out of Doncaster, past the Eeindeer 
and the white-fronted houses of the wealthier 
citizens of that prosperous borough, and away upon 
the smooth high road. The faint shimmer of the 
pale 'early moonlight lit up the tree-tops right 
and left of him, as he left the suburb behind, and 
made the road ghostly beneath his horse's feet. 
He was in no very hopeful humour, after his 



300; AUBORA. FLOYD. 

interview with Mr. Grimstone, and he knew that 
hungry-eyed members of the Doncaster consta* 
bulary were keeping stealthy watch upon every 
creature in the Mellish household, and that the 
slanderous tongues of a greedy public were swell- 
ing into a loud and ominous murmur against the 
wife John loved. Every hour, every moment, 
was of vital importance. A ^ hundred perils 
menaced them on every side. What might they 
not have to dread from eager busy-bodies aimous 
to distinguish themselyes, and proud of being the 

first to circulate a foul scandal against the lovely 
daughter of one of the richest men upon the Stock 
Exchange ? Hayward the coroner, and Lofthouse 
the rector, both knew the secret of Aurora's life ; 
and it would be little wonder if, looking at the 
trainer's death by the light of that knowledge, 
they believed her guilty of some share in the 
ghastly business which had terminated the trisdner's 
service at Mellish Park. 

What if, by some horrible fatality, the guilty 
man should escape, and the truth never be re- 
vealed ! For ever and for ever, imtil her blighted 
name should be written upon a tombstone, Aurora 
Mellish must rest under the shadow of this sus- 



TALBOT BULSTBODB MAKES ATONEMENT. 301 

pieion. Could there be any doubt that the sen- 
sitiye and highly^trung nature would give way 
under the unendurable burden ; that the proud 
heart would break beneath the undeserved disgrace ? 
What misery for her I and not for her alone, but 
for every one who loved her, ot had any share in 
her. history ! Heaven pardon the selfishness that 
prompted the thought, if Talbot Bulstrode re- 
membered that he would have some part in that 
bitter disgrace ; that his name was allied, if only 
remotely, with that of his wife's cousin ; and that 
the shame which would make the name of Mellish 
a byword, must also cast some slur upon the 
escutcheon of the Bulstrodes. Sir Bernard Burke, 
compiling the romance of the county families, 
would teU that cruel story, and hinting cautiously 
at Aurora's guilt, would scarcely fail to add, that 
the suspected lady's cousin had married Talbot 
Kaleigh Bulstrode, Esq., eldest eon and heir of 
Sir John Walter Ealeigh Bulstrode, Baronet, of 
Bulstrode Castle, ComwalL 

Now, although the detective had affected a 
hopeful and even mysterious manner in his brief 
interview with Talbot, he had not succeeded in 
hoodwinking that gentleman, who had a vague 



302 AX7B0BA FLOTD. 

suspicion that all was not quite rights and that 
Mr. Joseph Grimstone was by no means so certain 
of success as he pretended to be. 

^^It's my firm belief that this man Hargraves 
has given him the slip," Talbot thought "He 
said something^about believing him to be in Don- 
caster, and then the next moment added that he 
might be further offi It's clear, therefore, that 
Grimstone doesn't know where he is ; and in that 
case it's as likely as not that the man's made off 
with his money, and will get away jfrom England, 
in spite of us. K he does this ^" 

Mr. Bulstrode di(l not finish the sentence. He 
had reached the north lodge, and dismounted to 
open the iron gate. The lights of the house 
shone hospitably far away beyond the wood, and 
the voices of some men about the stable-gates 
sounded faintly in the distance; but the north 
lodge and the neglected shrubbery around it were 
as silent as the grave, and had a certain phantom- 
like air in the dim moonlight. 

Talbot led his horse through the gates. He 
looked up at the windows of the lodge, as he 
passed, half involuntarily ; but he stopped with a 
suppressed exclamation of surprise, at the sight of 



w 



TALBOT BULSTBODB MAKES ATONEMENT 303 

a feeble glimmer, which was not the moonlight, in 
the window of that upper chamber in which the mur- 
dered !nan had slept. Before that exclamation 
had well-nigh crossed his lips, the light had dis- 
appeared. 

K any one of the Mellish grooms or stable-boys 
had beheld that brief apparition, he would have 
incontinently taken to his heels, a^d rushed 
breathless to the stables, with a wild story of some 
supernatural horror in the north lodge ; but Mr. 
Bulstrode being altogether of another mettle, 
walked softly on, still leading his horse, until he 
was well out of ear-shot of any one within the 
lodge, when he stopped and tied the Eed Eover's 
bridle to a tree, and turned back towards the 
north gates, leaving the corn-fed covert hack 
cropping greedily at dewy hazel twigs, and any 
greenmeat within his reach. 

The heir of Sir John Walter Baleigh Bulstrode 
crept back to the lodge, almost as noiselessly as 
if he had been educated for Mr. Grimstone's 
profession, choosing the grassy pathway beneath 
the trees for his cautious footsteps. As he 
approached the wooden paling that shut in the 
little garden of the lodge, the light which had 



301 AUBQSA FLOYD. 

been so suddenly extinguished, reappeared behind 
the white curtain of the upper window. 

** It's queer T' mused Mr. Bulstrode, * as he 
watched the feeble glimmer ; " but I dare say 
there's nothing in it. The associations of this 
place are strong enough to make one attach a 
foolish importance to anything connected with it. 
I thinV I heard John say the gardeners keep their 
tools there, and I suppose it's one of them. But 
it's late, too, for any of them to be at work." 

It had struck ten while Mr, Bulstrode rode 
homeward ; and it was more than unlikely that 
any of the Mellish servants would be out at such a 
time. 

Talbot lingered by the wicket-gate, irresolute 
as to what he should do next, but thoroughly 
determined to see the last of this late visitor at 
the north lodge, when the shadow of a man flitted 
across the white curtain, — a shadow even more 

shadow of a man with a hump-back ! 

Talbot Bulstrode nttered no cry of surprise; 
but his heart knocked furiously against his ribs, 
and the blood rushed hotly to his face. He never 
remembered having seen the " Softy ;" but he had 



TAIiBOT BULSTBODE MAKES ATONEMENT. 305 

always heard him described as a hump-backed 
man. There could be no. doubt of the shadow's 
identitj'; there could be still less doubt that 
Stephen Hargraves had visited that place for no 
good purpose. What could bring him there — ^to 
that place above all other places, which, if he were 
indeed guilty, he would surely most desire to 
avoid? Stolid, semi-idiotic, as he was supposed 
to be, surely the common terrors of the lowest 
assassin, half brute, half Caliban, would keep him 
away from that spot • These thoughts did not 
occupy more than those few moments in which the 
violent beating of Talbot Bulstrode's heart held 
him powerless to move or act ; then, pushing open 
the gate, he rushed across the tiny garden, tramp- 
ling recklessly upon the neglected flowei>beds, and 
softly tried the door. It was firmly secured with 
a heavy chain and padlock. 

" He has got in at the window, then," thought 
Mr. Bulstrode. " What, in Heaven's name, could 
be his motive in coming here ?" 

Talbot was right The little lattice-'roidow 
had been wrenched nearly off its hinges, and hung 
loosely among the tangled foliage that surrounded 
it Mr. Bulstrode did not hesitate a moment 



306 AUBOEA, PIX>TDu 

before he plunged head foremost into the narrow 
aperture through which the ^ Softy" must haye 
foond his way, and scrambled as he could into the 
little room. The lattice, stramed stQl further, 
dropped, with a crashing noise, behind him; butnot 
soon enough to serve as a warning for Stephen 
Hargrayes, who appeared upon the lowest step of 
the tiny corkscrew staircase at the same moment. 
He was carrying a tallow candle in a battered tin 
candlestick in his right hand, and he had a small 
bundle under his left arm. His white &ce was no 
whiter than usual, but he presented an awfully 
corpse-like appearance to Mr. Bulstrode, who had 
never seen hina, or noticed him, before. The 
** Softy " recoiled, with a gesture of intense terror, 
as he saw Talbot ; and a box of lucifer-matches, 
which he had been carrying in the candlestick, 
rolled to the ground. 

" What are you doing here ?" asked Mr. Bul- 
strode, sternly ; " and why did you come in at the 
window ?" 

" I wam't doin' no wrong ;'* the " Softy " whined 
piteously; "and it aint your business neither," 
he added, with a feeble attempt at insolence. 

" It is my business. I am Mr. Mellish's friend 



TALBOT BULSTBODE MAKES ATONEMENT. 307 

and relation ; and I have reason to suspect that 
you are here for no good purpose," answered 
Talbot. "I insist upon knowing what you came for." 

" I haven't come to steal owght, anyhow," said 
Mr. Hargraves;-*Hhere's nothing here but chairs 
and tables, and 'taint loikely I've come arter them." 

" Perhaps not ; but you have come after some- 
thing, and I insist upon knowing what it is. You 
wouldn't come to this place unless you'd a very 
strong reason for coming. "What have you got 
there ?" 

Mr. Bulstrode pointed to the bundle carried by the 
" Softy." Stephen Hargraves' small red-brown eyes 
evaded those of his questioner, and made believe 
to mistake the direction in which Talbot looked. 

"What have you got there?" reputed Mr. 
Bulstrode ; " you know well enough what I mean. 
What have you got there, in that bundle under 
your arm ?" 

The " Softy " clutched convulsively at the dingy 
bundle, and glared at his questioner with some- 
thing of the savage terror of some ugly animal at 
bay. Except that in his brutalized manhood, he 
was more awkward, and perhaps more repulsive, 
than the ugliest of the lower animals. 

, VOL. HL Y 



308 AT7B0BA WUOYXy. 

** It's nowght to you, nor to anybody else," he 
nmttered sulkily. ** I suppose a poor chap may 
fetch his few bits of clothes without being called 
like this?' 

** What clothes ? Let me see the clothes?* 

** No, I won't ; they're nowght to you. They — 
it's only an old weskit as was give me by one o' 
th' lads in th' steables." 

**A waistcoat!" cried Mr. Bulstrode; "let me 
see it this instant. A waistcoat of yours has been 
particularly inquired for, Mr. Hargraves. It's a 
chocolate waistcoat, with yellow stripes and brass 
buttons, unless I'm very much mistaken. Let me 
see it" 

Talbot Bulstrode was abnost breathless with 
excitement. The "Softy", stared aghast at the 
description of his waistcoat, but he was too stupid 
to comprehend instantaneously the reason tot 
which this garment was wanted. He recoiled for 
a few paces, and then made a rush towards the 
window; but Talbot's hands closed upon his collar, 
and held him as if in a vice. 

"You'd better not trifle with me," cried Mr. 
Bulstrode; "I've been accustomed to deal with 
refractory Sepoys in India, and I've had a stmg- 



TALBOT BULSTBODB MAKES ATONEMENT. 309 

gle with a tiger before now/ Show me that 
waistcoat !" 

« I won't !" 

" By the Heaven above us, you shall !" 

« I won't r* 

The two men closed with each other in a hand- 
to-hand struggle. Powerful as the soldier was, 
he found himseK more than matched by Stephen 
Hargraves, whose thick-set frame, broad shoul- 
ders, and sinewy arms were almost Herculean in, 
their build. The struggle lasted for a consider- 
able time, — or for a time that seemed considerable 
to both of the combatants; but at last it drew 
towards its termination, and the heir of all the 
Bulstrodes, the commander of squadrons of horse, 
the man who had done battle with bloodthirsty 
Sikhs, and ridden against the black mouths of 
Bussian cannon at Balaclava, felt that he could 
scarcely hope to hold out much longer against 
the half-witted hanger-on of the Mellish stables. 
The homy fingers of the ** Softy " were upon his 
throat, the long arms of the " Softy " were writhing 
round him, and in another moment Talbot Bul- 
strode lay upon the floor of the north lodge, with 
the " Softy's " knee planted upon his heaving chest. 

Y 2 



810 AmfeOBA. FLOTDl 

Another moment, and in the dim moonlight, — 
the candle had been thrown down and trampled 
npon in the beginning of the scuffle,— Ae heir of 
Bulgtrode Castle saw Stephen Hargraves fumbling 
with his disengaged hand in his breast-pocket 

One moment more, and Mr. Bulstrode heard 
that sharp metallic noise only associated with tiie 
opening of a clasp-knife. 

'' E'es,** hissed the " Softy," with his hot breath 
close upon the Mien man's cheek, ^you wanted 
t' see th' weskit^ did you ; but you sha'n't, for Fll 
serve you as I served him. 'Taint loikely m 
let you stand between me and two thousand 
pound." 

Talbot Baleigh Bulstrode had a fsdnt notion 
that a broad Sheffield blade flashed in the silvery 
moonlight; but at this moment his senses grew 
confused under the iron grip of the "Softy's" 
hand, and he knew little, except that there was a 
sudden crashing of glass behind him, a quick 
trampling of feet, and a strange voice roaring 
some seafaring oath above his head. The suffo- 
cating pressure was suddenly removed from his 
throat ; some one, or something, was hurled into 
a comer of the little room; and Mr. Bulstrode 



TALBOT BULSTBODE MAKES ATONEBIENT. 311 

sprang to his feet, a trifle dazed and bewildered, 
but quite ready to do battle again. 

" Who is it ?' he cried. 

" It's me, Samuel Prodder," answered the voice 
that had uttered that dreadful seafaring oath. 
"You were pretty nigh done for, mate, when I 
came aboard. It aint the first time I've been up 
here after dark, takin' a quiet stroll and a pipe, 
before turning in over yonder." Mr. Prodder indi- 
cated Doncaster by a backward jerk of his thumb. 
" I'd been watchin' the light fix)m a distance, tiU it 
went out suddenly five minutes ago, and then I 
came up dose to see what was the matter. I don't 
know who you are, or what you are, or why you've 
been quarrelling ; but I know you've been pretty 
near as nigh your death to-night as ever that chap 
was in the wood." 

"The waistcoat!" gasped Mr. Bulstrode; "let 
me see the waistcoat !" 

He sprang once more upon the "Softy," who 
had rushed towards the door, and was trjdng to 
beat out the panel with his iron-bound clog ; but 
this time Mr. Bulstrode had a stalwart ally in the 
merchant-captain. 

" A bit of rope comes uncommon handy in these 



812 AUBOSA FLOYD. 

cases," said Samuel Prodder; **for which reason 
I always make a point of carrying it somewhere 
about me." 

He plunged up to his elbow in one of the capa- 
cious pockets of his tourist peg-tops, and produced 
a short coil of tarry rope. As he might have 
lashed a seaman to a mast in the last crisis of a 
wreck, so he lashed Mr. Stephen Hargraves now, 
bindmg him right and left, until the struggKng 
arms and legs, and writhing trunk, were fain to 
be stilL 

<< Now, if you want to ask him any questions, I 
make no doubt he'll answer 'em," said Mr. Prodder, 
politely. "You'll find him a deal quieter after that" 

"I can't thank you now," Talbot answered 
hurriedly; "there'll be time enough for that 
by-and-by." 

**Ay, ay, to be sure, mate," growled the cap- 
tain; "no thanks is needed where no thanks is 
due. Is there anything else I can do for yov ?" 

" Yes, a good deal presently ; but I must find 
this waistcoat first Where did he put it, I won- 
der ? Stay, I'd better try and get a light Keep 
your eye upon that man while I look for it" 

Captain Prodder only nodded. He looked upon 



TALBOT BULSTBOBB MASBB ATONEMENT. 313 

his scientific lashing of the ** Softy " as the triumph 
of art ; but he hovered near his prisoner in com- 
pliance with Talbot*s request, ready to fall upon 
him if he should make any attempt to stir. 

There was enough moonlight to enable Mr. 
Bulstrode to find the lucifers and candlestick after 
a few minutes' search. The candle was not im- 
proved by having been trodden upon ; but Talbot 
contrived to light it, and then set to work to look 
for the waistcoat 

The bundle had rolled into a comer. It was 
tightly bound with a quantity of whip-cord, and 
was harder than it could have been had it con- 
sisted solely of the waistcoat. 

"Hold the light for me while I undo this," 
Talbot cried, thrusting the candlestick into Mr. 
Prodder's hand. He was so impatient that he 
could scarcely wait while he cut the whipcord 
about the bundle with the " Softy's ** huge clasp- 
knife, which he had picked up while searching 
for the candle, 

^'I thought so," he said, as he unroUed the 
waistcoat ; " the money's here." 

The money was there, in a small Bussia-leather 
pocket-book, in which Aurora had given it to the 



314 AT7S0BA FLOYD. 

murdered man. If there had been any confirma- 
tion needed for this fact^ the savage yell of ragd 
which broke &om Stephen's lips would haVe 
afforded that confirmation. 

" It's the money," cried Talbot Bnlstrode. « I 
caU upon you, sir, to bear witness, whoever you 
may be, that I find this waistcoat and this pocket- 
book in the possession of this man, and that I 
take them from him after a struggle, in which he 
attempts my life." 

" Ay, ay ! I know him well enough," muttered 
the sailor ; he's a bad 'un ; and him and me have 
had a stand further, before this." 

" And I call upon you to bear witness that this 
man is the murderer of James Conyers." 

"What?" roared Samuel Prodder; **himl 
Why, the double-dyed villain : it was him that put 
it into my head that it was my sister Eliza's chi — 
that it was Mrs. Mellish " 

"Yes, yes, I know. But we've got him now. 
Will you run to the house, and send some of the 
men to fetch a constable, while I stop here ?" 

Mr. Prodder assented willingly. He had as- 
sisted Talbot in the first instance without any idea 
of what the business was to lead to. Now he was 



TALBOT BULSTBODE MAKES ATONEMENT. 315' 

quite, as much excited as Mr. Bulstrode. He 
scrambled through the lattice, and ran off to the 
stables, guided by the lighted windows of the 
groom's dormitories. 

Talbot waited very quietly while he was gone. 
He stood at a few paces from the " Softy," watch- 
ing Mr. Hargraves as he gnawed savagely at his 
bonds, in the hope perhaps of setting himself free. 

*^ I shall be ready for you," the young Cornish- 
man said quietly, " whenever you're ready for me." 

A crowd of grooms and hangers-on came with 
lanterns before the constables could arrive ; and 
foremost amongst them came Mr. John Mellish, 
very noisy and very unintelligible. The door of 
the lodge was opened, and they all burst into the 
little chamber, where, heedless of grooms, gardeners, 
stable-boys, hangers-on, and rabble, John Mellish 
fell on his friend's breast and wept aloud. 

y L'Envoi. 
What more have I to tell of this simple drama 
of domestic life? The end has come. The 
element of tragedy which has been so inter- 
mingled in the history of a homely Yorkshire 
squire and his wife, is henceforth to be banished 



816 AT7B0BA FLOYD. 

from the record of their liyes. The dark story 
which began in Aurora Floyd's folly, and culmi- 
nated in the crime of a half-witted serving-man, 
has been told from the beginning to the end. It 
would be worse than useless to linger upon the de- 
scription of a trial which took place at York at the 
Michaelmas Assizes. The evidence against Stephen 
Hargraves was conclusive ; and the gallows out- 
side York Castle ended the life of a man who had 
never been either help or comfort to any one of 
his fellow-creatures. There was an attempt made 
to set up a plea of irresponsibility upon the part 
of the " Softy," and the sobriquet which had been 
given him was urged in his defence ; but a set of 
matter-of-fact-jurymen looking at the circum- 
stances of the murder, saw nothing in it but a most 
cold -blooded assassination, perpetrated by a wretch 
whose sole motive was gain; and the verdict 
which found Stephen Hargraves guilty, was tem- 
pered by no recommendation to mercy. The con- 
demned murderer protested his iimocence up to 
the night before his execution, aiid upon that 
night made a fall confession of his crime, as is 
generally the custom of his kind. He related 
how he had followed James Conyers into the 



TALBOT BULSTBOPE MAKES ATONEMENT. 817 

wood upon the night of his assignation with 
Aurora, and how he had watched and listened 
during the interview. He had shot the trainer 
in the back while Mr. Conyers sat by the 
water's edge looking over the notes in the 
pocket-booky and he had used a button off his 
waistcoat instead of wadding, not finding anything 
else suitable for the purpose. He had hidden the 
waistcoat and pocket-book in a rat-hole in the 
wainscoat of the murdered man's chamber, and, 
being dismissed £rom the lodge suddenly, had been 
compelled to leave his booty behind him, rather 
than excite suspicion. It was thus that he had 
returned upon the night on which Talbot found 
liim, meaning to secure his prize and start for 
Liverpool at six o'clock the following morning. 

Aurora and her husband left Mellish Park im- 
mediately after the committal of the " Softy " to 
York prison. They went to the south of France, 
accompanied by Archibald Floyd, and once more 
travelled together through scenes which were 
overshadowed by no sorrowful association. They 
lingered long at Nice, and here Talbot and Lucy 
joined them, with an impedimental train of luggage 
and servants, and a Normandy nurse with a blue- 



318 AT7B0BA FLOYD. 

eyed girl-baby. It was at Nice that another baby 
was bom, a black-eyed child — a boy, I believe — ^but 
wonderfully like that solemn-faced infant whicli 
Mrs, Alexander Floyd carried to the widowed 
banker two-and-twenty years before at Felden 
Woods. 

It is almost supererogatory to say that Samuel 
Prodder, the sea-captain, was cordially received 
by hearty John Mellish and his wife. He is to 
be a welcome visitor at the Park whenever he 
pleases to come ; indeed, he is homeward bound 
from Barbadoes at ttiis very time, his cabin-presses 
fiUed to overflowing with presents which he is 
carrying to Aurora, in the way of chillis preserved 
in vinegar, guava-jelly, the strongest Jamaica rum, 
and other trifles suitable for a lady's acceptance. 
It may be some comfort to the gentlemen in Scot- 
land Yard to know that John Mellish acted libe- 
rally to the detective, and gave him the full re- 
ward, although Talbot Bulstrode had been the 
captor of the " Softy." 

So we leave Aurora, a little changed, a shade 
less defiantly bright, perhaps, but unspeakably 
beautiful and tender, bending over the cradle of 
her first-bom ; and though there are alterations 



TALBOT BULSTBODE MAKES ATONEMENT. 319 

being made at Mellish, and loose-boxes for brood 
mares building upon the site of the north lodge, 
and a subscription tan-gallop being laid across 
Harper's Common, I doubt if my heroine will 
care so much for horseflesh, or take quite so keen 
an interest in weightrfor-age races as compared to 
handicaps, as she has done in the days that are 
gone. 



THE END. 



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